Heart's Blood
by ChristineX
Summary: COMPLETE! Lithiníel wanted to die. Therefore, Sauron desired that she should live. What happened next defied all expectations.... Set approximately 40 years before the War of the Ring.
1. Chapter 1

Well, I didn't stay away very long (this place is an addiction, I swear). I'm going ahead and posting this, even though the alerts are still wonky. I'll just have to cross my fingers and hope for the best. Consider this a little interlude, an exploration of an utterly implausible relationship that I began to think about after a few of my readers commented that they'd really like to see a Sauron romance. I wasn't sure that was possible, but I definitely wanted to find out.

One additional note: any Beauty and the Beast/Phantom of the Opera/Hades and Persephone references/parallels are purely intentional. ;-)

* * *

One

They found the body lying face down near the bank of a small stream. Lately the band of orcs had become braver, venturing further into the lower glades of the region Men called Ithilien. However, none of them had actually seen one...until now.

"Don't smell right," declared Sarthang, wide nostrils wrinkling as he pushed at the inert form with one grubby bare toe.

"Course not -- it's dead," Balthuk replied, circling around the taller orc and squinting at their unexpected discovery. If it hadn't been dead too long, it might make good eating.

"Think I don't know what dead smells like? I don't smell dead here...but it don't smell like a Man."

Balthuk let out a short, harsh laugh. "Like you've smelled a Man before. You've never even been in Man-country before."

Sarthang gave his companion a sneer. "Lot you know. Captain sent me out with you just because he knew you wouldn't last an hour out here on your own. I seen plenty of Men, living and dead, and this one don't smell like any of 'em."

The third member of their scouting party, a smaller gray-skinned tracker, made a disgusted noise as he knelt next to the body. "It's not a Man. It's a female."

That comment made the other two abruptly abandon their argument and push their way over to the huddled figure they'd found. The tracker orc snarled at them but then beat a hasty retreat as he appeared to measure their mass against his. Balthuk reached out with a grimy black-nailed hand and grasped the body by its shoulder, then turned it over on its back.

Sure enough, it was a female, face waxy and bloodless, gray eyes staring sightlessly up into the night sky. Her dark hair fell away from one cheek, exposing a delicate, pointed ear tip.

Balthuk swore. "Bloody hell -- it's an Elf!"

"What's it doing here?" Sarthang asked, backing away slightly. Even dead, the she-Elf seemed to trouble him.

"How the hell would I know?" growled Balthuk. "None of these tree-bangers been seen in this part of the world for -- " He broke off, then shrugged. "It's not supposed to be here, no how."

"But it is," Sarthang pointed out.

Balthuk scowled at him. Master of the obvious, that was Sarthang.

Meanwhile, the tracker orc -- Balthuk had never caught his name, not that it mattered with a _snaga_ like that -- had crept back to the limp body of the dead Elf and had pressed his nose almost up to her immobile face. Balthuk couldn't see how the tracker could stand to have the stink of an Elf that close to his face, but he supposed the _snaga_ spent most of his life inhaling unpleasant smells.

"Found a girlfriend?" laughed Sarthang. "Gonna buy her perfume?"

The tracker orc made a flapping motion with one of his hands. "Shut up, you."

Both Balthuk and Sarthang bristled. Had that little piece of walking refuse just told them to _shut up_? However, any recriminations that might have arisen from that spectacular piece of effrontery were effectively forestalled when the _snaga_ added, "She's not dead."

The two larger orcs both gave him a startled look, then glared down at the dead Elf. Well, the maybe not-dead Elf.

"She looks dead," Balthuk said.

Sarthang prodded her with his toe again. That action should have left some dirt on her pale-gray gown, but the Elvish fabric appeared to resist such besmirchment. The gown was damp, but not dripping; apparently she had lain on the riverbank here for some time. Her body shook slightly from the impact of Sarthang's foot, but otherwise she showed no reaction. "Feels dead, too," he said.

The tracker orc shrugged. "Maybe, but my nose don't lie. She ain't dead. Breathing's odd...slow, like. And I can barely smell the blood moving in her veins, but it's flowing."

"Then how can she be staring at us like that?" Balthuk demanded, and squatted down by the comatose Elf female. He waved a hand across the oddly glazed eyes, but she still looked up into the darkness without moving.

"Don't know," said the_ snaga_ with a shrug.

"Some Elvish trick, no doubt," Sarthang said. "I heard somewhere they go into trances or something...don't ever sleep or die."

"Oh, they die, if you stick 'em," said Balthuk. "No doubt of that." Repressing a shudder, he reached out and passed his hand over the she-Elf's eyes once more, this time to close them. That odd, white-ringed stare had begun to give him the creeps. He worried that maybe her eyes wouldn't stay shut, that her lids would fly open again immediately, but his fears were allayed somewhat when he saw that for now at least they seemed disposed to stay closed. Her lashes made a pair of sooty lines against her pale skin.

"So what now?" asked Sarthang. "Kill her? Leave her here?"

Balthuk thought for a moment. It was tempting to just stick a knife in her and abandon her here to slowly bleed out -- not that it appeared she would even feel it. But they had their orders, and if word got out that they'd left what might have been an Elvish spy behind in Ithilien, there'd be hell to pay.

"Nah," he said after a pause. "Orders are to report anything unusual. I'd say a half-dead Elvish female counts as unusual. Better take her back to the bosses." _Let them figure out what to do with her_, he thought. Although sympathy was a foreign emotion to him, he couldn't help feeling a rare flicker of pity as he stared down at the she-Elf's huddled body. He knew he sure as hell wouldn't want to be handed over to the Nazgûl lord who commanded Minas Morgul. But it was there she must go.

And a slog that would be, carrying her back across the land they had just crossed, miles of fen and hill and stream. At least on this outing they hadn't run afoul of any Men. Balthuk hoped their luck would hold until they got back into safer territory.

Still, no reason he should take the load on himself. "Pick her up," he instructed Sarthang, who made a snarling noise of disgust but did as he was told. He bent down and gathered up the she-Elf, slinging her over one shoulder like a sack of meal. The tracker orc watched this procedure with the faintest look of satisfaction on his lumpish features, as if he were glad that for once his small size actually benefited him. Certainly he wouldn't be asked to share in their burden.

Sarthang straightened, giving Balthuk an evil glare. No doubt having the elf stink that close to his nose had put him off his humor. But he said nothing, and Balthuk grinned a little.

"All right, boys," he growled. "Move out."

* * *

It had been many, many years since the Lord of the Nazgûl felt surprised by anything, but he couldn't help experiencing a mild sense of astonishment as he looked down at the unconscious form of the Elf woman the orc captain had laid at his feet before he backed away hastily, looking as if he very much wanted to be elsewhere. Even Mordor's servants had a difficult time coming face to face with the lord of the Morgul Vale.

The she-Elf had been found next to one of the innumerable streams that crisscrossed Ithilien and which branched off from the River Anduin, but that did nothing to explain how she had gotten there in the first place. Elves occasionally had been spotted this far south, but always the yellow-haired sylvan folk of Lorien and Mirkwood. This female, by her coloring, appeared to be one of the accursed Elves who dwelt far to the north in Imladris.

He considered her immobile body, the facial features somehow closed in on themselves, but not slack the way a mortal woman's would have been in such an unconscious state. Of course she was beautiful -- he had never heard of an Elf who was not -- but such things had long since lost their power to move him. Although he had ascertained for himself that she in fact lived, she had not stirred since being brought here, nor had she apparently exhibited any signs of life during the rough journey from the northern marches of Ithilien to the Morgul Vale. Her ambiguous state, neither truly living or dead, had obviously disturbed the orcs who discovered her. The Lord of the Nazgûl, however, had a long acquaintance with existence in such a twilight world.

Alone now in his private chambers within Minas Morgul, he knelt next to her, reaching out with an invisible hand to touch her forehead. Still she did not move, not even here, as she was examined by a being who most certainly have made her quail in terror had she been conscious. He knew that the Elves had a way of transporting themselves into a waking dream, but he also knew that this peculiar state did not preclude returning to the real world when an outside threat or other stimulus intruded. Perhaps -- for whatever reason -- she had retreated into so deep a shock that nothing in this world would ever reach her again.

Of course she could not be considered a threat. But she was still an anomaly, and as such should be reported. He stood then, going to the palantír where it sat on a dais of black marble in the center of the room. Reaching out, he placed his hands on the cold, darkly gleaming orb, and waited.

Sometimes the contact came immediately. On other occasions the Dark Lord preferred to keep his servant waiting. Notions such as impatience or annoyance had little to do with the Lord of the Nazgûl. He merely stood there in the dark tower, the she-Elf's gown an incongruous blur of light at the corner of his vision, until Sauron deigned to reply.

Time passed. Then came the familiar deep voice in his thoughts. _You summoned me?_

_My lord, all is well here on the western borders of your kingdom, but a matter of some mystery has come up._

A slight sense of irritation in the mental voice of the Dark Lord. _What is it?_

_An Elf, your Majesty_.

_And what is so unusual about the existence of one of the cursed Eldar? Do they not still inhabit Middle Earth?_

The Nazgûl lord hesitated. He was as far beyond any fears of retaliation or punishment as he was beyond love or mercy, but the long years had taught him to treat his master with care, lest he invite unwanted scrutiny. _Of course, my lord, but this one was found in Ithilien, far from any others of her kin. She lies as if dead, but her spirit has not yet left her body. I seek your counsel._

A long pause, followed by a flicker of cool amusement. _So you require my advice as to what you should do with one_ elleth_? Surely she is not too formidable a foe for you, my lord of Angmar._

_Of course not, my lord, but as with all things, I would request your permission before I dispose of her._ Surely that would be the simplest thing, to simply plunge a blade into her heart, to set her soul free from the inert body in which it was trapped. Then the matter of whether or not she were a spy would be made academic.

Again a lull, as the Dark Lord seemed to consider the matter. _I think not. Bring her to me, so that I may inspect her for myself. Perhaps I can think of a way to rouse her._

The Ringwraith inclined his head._ So it will be done, my lord. I fly to Barad Dûr directly_. With that, the Lord of the Nazgûl raised his hands from the palantír, then went to the she-Elf and retrieved her, lifting her with as much ease and as little care as he would a bundle of discarded rags. From there he descended the long staircase in his tower, heading toward the separate building where the Ringwraiths' flying beasts were housed. It would not do, after all, to keep the Dark Lord waiting. Rarely these days did such amusements cross his path, and no doubt he looked forward to bending his will upon the Elven female.

If he had been human any longer, the Lord of the Nazgûl might have troubled himself over her fate. As it was, he only felt a certain distant relief that very soon she would no longer be his concern.

* * *

In Barad Dûr, orders were given, and preparations made. A chamber that hadn't been used in tens of years was opened once more, with fresh bedding laid out and a fire kindled to life in the black marble hearth. The slaves who were set to these tasks may have whispered amongst themselves as to who could possibly be occupying these rooms, but such matters were far beneath the Dark Lord's attention.

Perhaps the Lord of the Nazgûl, who had delivered his unlikely package to the Mouth of Sauron, the Dark Lord's de facto steward, might have been surprised to learn that the Elf woman was not destined for one of Barad Dûr's innumerable dungeons, but instead one of the rarely used guest chambers Sauron had used in the past to house visiting emissaries from his subject kingdoms to the south and east. Then again, perhaps not. The Nazgûl lord was not the sort to be startled by much. In any case, he had already gone, duty discharged, and the reason for his unscheduled journey to the heart of the Dark Lord's domain safely ensconced in the suite which had been prepared for her.

The massive bed dwarfed her slender form as she lay there, the pale oval of her face seeming to float within the masses of her dark hair. Hangings of gaudy gold and scarlet and black only served to heighten the contrast between the Elf woman and her surroundings.

He did not recognize her; he had not expected to. Those who had made war upon him in the past would have been her male brethren, since Elven women as a rule did not take up arms. But he saw in her aspect and her coloring all that proclaimed her to be a distant descendant of Luthíen, or at least one of the Noldor who still sheltered in Imladris.

Drawing closer, he reached out a gloved hand to push a lock of hair away from her white throat. These days he preferred to retain a corporeal form; although his right hand continually ached from the loss of its ring finger, that constant painful reminder of his great misfortune was still preferable to the vague unsettled feeling which overcame him whenever he spent too long a time in the world of the spirits.

When he spoke, it was in the language of her people. "Awake, lost one. I desire to have speech with you."

Still she did not stir, but Sauron thought he saw a tiny pulse beat in her throat, the smallest flicker of the eyes beneath their fragile lids. Only faint hints at life, but still more than she had shown before.

Smiling beneath his hood, Sauron waited. Soon enough she would return to the world. He did not think she would much enjoy that waking.

* * *

Warm light trembled at the edges of her vision. Lithiníel became conscious suddenly of the smoothness of clean linens against her skin, the weight of cocooning bedclothes surrounding her body.

Her eyes fluttered open. At first the blackness of her unconscious state seemed little relieved by the opening of her eyelids, but she then noticed that the dull orange light she'd sensed emanated from an enormous hearth across the room, where a fire burned low but did little to illuminate the darkness of the room where she lay.

But she was warm, and comfortable, and safe. Perhaps it had all been just a black dream, a nightmare born of her despair. Someone must have found her and rescued her, brought her back to Imladris.

She sat up then, grasping the coverlets with fingers that felt numbed from long inactivity. Something about the sheets didn't seem quite right; they were slightly rough linen, not the smooth silk she'd always slept on in the home she had shared with her parents. And the thick bed coverings felt too heavy, again as if made from materials not used by Elrond's people. The air smelled odd as well, the scent of wood from the hearth overlaid by a strange acrid odor that she couldn't identify.

Her eyes began to adjust to the dimness, and she made out the shapes of furniture heavy against the walls. Likewise, the bed hangings began to take on shape and form, the brocade with its glinting pattern of sinuous serpentine shapes utterly alien. Where in Middle Earth was she?

Suddenly she noticed a dark shape standing a few feet away from where she lay. Her gaze had probably passed over it once or twice, thinking it only a shadow cast by the uncertain light of the fire. But then she saw it shift slightly. A deep voice came to her, speaking in pure Quenya with an archaic accent she couldn't place. "You wake."

Although the words were not threatening, something about the stranger's voice caused a wave of dread to flow over her. The skin lifted at the back of her neck. Perhaps it was merely the shock of waking in a strange place, only to find a mysterious figure standing watch over her. Still, she did not wish for him to think her fearful. So she asked, "Where am I?"

"What is your name?"

The lack of a reply, the offering of a question instead, did nothing to reassure her. Names were powerful, but she saw no reason not to give her first name, the one her father had bestowed upon her when she entered this world. "Lithiníel."

The dark shape moved slightly, as if turning toward her. "You come from Imladris."

A statement, not an inquiry. Still, anyone with a grasp of the language as good as his would certainly have no trouble identifying her origins. "That is true," she admitted. "May I know who offers me this hospitality? I confess, I don't recall how I came here -- "

"You lay as if dead, yet I was able to detect a breath of life within you," he said, and took a few steps toward the bed. Still Lithiníel could make out no details of his appearance, save that he seemed to wear a long robe with a hood that drooped low to hide his face. He paused, as if loath to come any closer. "You are a long way from home."

Somehow she sensed that, felt the wrongness about her surroundings even though she couldn't say exactly why. Certainly the bed was comfortable enough, the furnishings lavish...if foreign. Straining her eyes against the darkness, she looked at the being who spoke to her in the formal tongue of her people but who she somehow guessed did not number one of the Eldar. "How far?" she asked, wishing as she did so that her voice sounded stronger, not so weak and faint. How long had it been, she wondered, since she fled in agony of spirit from the serenity of Imladris, a serenity at the time she had thought mocked her pain?

The hood tilted slightly as he appeared to study her face. "All the way to Mordor."

At first the phrase made no sense. It was a horrible jest, a cruel jab, meant to wound but certainly not to be taken seriously. How could this warm firelit room be anywhere near the Land of Shadow? Surely if she had fallen into the hands of the Enemy, she would have been taken straightway to one of the Dark Tower's innumerable prison cells or torture chambers?

"If your answer was meant in jest, I must say I do not find the humor in it," Lithiníel said at last, forcing her voice to a calmness she certainly did not feel. How she wished she could see something of her captor!

"To be sure, I do not usually find the truth particularly amusing," he replied, the inflection in his deep voice suggesting that he was, in fact, somewhat amused by her reaction. "In any case, my reply was not meant to be taken in such a fashion. You lie in Barad Dûr, in a guest chamber that has housed great princes of Harad and Rhûn. It seemed the most fitting place for you."

"Then it seems I must thank you for your hospitality," she managed, unsure as to how she could possibly reply to that statement. To be held in Barad Dûr, stronghold of evil in these latter days -- and to find it no more threatening than a room in a strange inn!

"You are most welcome," he said gravely, although Lithiníel thought she still detected an undercurrent of mirth in his voice. It seemed as if he cocked his head to one side; at least, she fancied she spied a movement of the black-against-black shadow of his form somewhere near the place where his head should be. Whoever he was, he possessed a height greater than anyone she had ever seen, even the tall sons of Elrond.

But that thought-path led only to pain. Lithiníel touched the embroidered coverlet, feeling the roughness of the woolen crewel threadwork against her fingertips, but said nothing.

Her captor went on, "You were found on a riverbank by some of my scouts, who delivered you to my captain, the lord of Morgul Vale. From thence you were brought here."

At first the meaning of his words didn't quite connect. Then Lithiníel felt a rush of cold wash over her, as if she had just fallen into the chill waters of the Bruinen in midwinter. "Your -- your _captain_?" she stammered.

This time there was no mistaking the small half-bow the shadowy figure gave her. "I see I have been remiss in making my introduction. I am the lord of Barad Dûr, Sauron, whom your people have called Gorthaur in the past."

Her insides felt as if they had congealed into ice. Surely this couldn't be real -- this had to be some fever dream, or some hallucination brought on by despair. That her foolhardy behavior had brought her to this pass -- no, it was unthinkable

_Would that I had died in the currents of the Anduin!_ she thought. _Elbereth, let this be only a nightmare..._

"By your silence, I would presume that this news does little to reassure you," he said. "And yet, do my actions not prove that I mean you no harm?"

To anyone else, Lithiníel might have said yes. After all, it was not the usual practice of evil beings to go to the trouble of putting up their victims in luxurious bedchambers, merely to torture or kill them later. But this was Sauron the Deceiver, the Lord of Lies -- she knew he might simply be toying with her, giving her a sense of false hope of survival so that her despair would be all the greater when he at last revealed his true self and banished her to the dungeons or torture chambers.

_As to that_, she reflected, _since I already sought to end my life, the Lord of Mordor might have found the wrong victim for that sort of game. Death would only be a release for me..._

"I do not know," she admitted at last. "You will forgive me if I say that your reputation does not lend itself to such good deeds as rescuing stranded travelers."

Then he did laugh, a sound startling in its unexpectedness. She would not have thought the Lord of Barad Dûr capable of genuine amusement. Perhaps he was merely laughing _at_ her, but she could not detect any malice in his tone.

Again he made one of those half-bows, a gesture that seemed to mock her even though all she could truly see was another shift of darkness against darkness. "Your honesty does you credit, Lithiníel. I hope that you will be honest with me when I ask you how you came to be washed ashore on a tributary of the Anduin, far from your home and kin."

That question made her close her eyes. In retrospect her actions seemed tinged with madness, and she couldn't imagine telling this shadowy form, this Dark Lord who spoke to her in mahogany tones from the fire-tinged darkness, of the impetuous chain of events that had led her here. When she spoke, her own voice was rough with bitterness and self-derision. "If I told you, you would think me a fool."

"I would think you a greater fool if you did not tell me," he replied, and although she thought she still heard that faint hidden laugh within his words, they had gained an edge of warning. He would not be crossed, this Lord of Mordor.

Lithiníel sighed. Really, did it matter what he thought of her? Her scant century had seemed to weigh more heavily on her with each passing day, but that span of time made her little more than a child in the world of her people and even less to one such as Sauron, who had seen the birth of the world. Let him think her rash and stupid and self-pitying. Perhaps her actions would disgust him, and he would make the end that the Great River somehow couldn't.

Still, she hesitated before speaking. In her heart she knew that there was no way to explain the thoughts that had consumed her, the bitter ache that had led her to cast herself into the waters of the Anduin.

"I was raised in Imladris, as you guessed, my lord." Lithiníel did not know whether that was a proper form of address for Sauron, but she certainly didn't possess the courage to call him by his name. "Although the community has dwindled in these latter days, still Lord Elrond has gathered many of the Eldar there. But I am sure this is already known to you."

The shadow shifted. "Of course."

_Of course_. She wondered then how much he knew of her people, of their comings and goings, the slow exodus to the West. "I am my parents' only child," she went on, marveling at how calm she now sounded. Perhaps it was only because she had resolved to tell the tale as if it had happened to someone else. So much easier then to distance herself from all that had occurred. "Some said that they were overindulgent, that I had a fiery nature which was held little in check. I will not presume to say whether those observers were correct or not." Lifting her chin, Lithiníel stared at the hooded shape that stood there like the night made flesh. How in all of Middle Earth could she tell him the truth of her heart? But she feared to hand him any lies -- surely Sauron the Deceiver would recognize a falsehood like an old friend. "It came to pass that I grew to care for Elladan, Lord Elrond's son. I will not enumerate his qualities now -- no doubt you care little to hear them."

Sauron made no reply. Taking his silence as tacit agreement, Lithiníel said, "Finally I found the courage to tell him of my feelings. To my dismay, I found they were not returned."

How cold, how clear her tone as she said that! Even as the words left her lips, Lithiníel recalled the pain of that day, the look of sorrow which had passed over Elladan's handsome features as he tried to explain to her that he could not allow himself to be with any woman, that he had taken a vow to avenge his mother's torment by raiding against the orcs of the Misty Mountains until the day Mordor finally fell.

Her face burned now as she recalled how she had tried to plead with him, to tell him that even for the Eldar the world was a chancy place, and they should try to seize their happiness when they could. Lithiníel hoped the dim light in the room would be enough to conceal her flushed cheeks as she dredged up those bitter memories, but who knew how keen the Dark Lord's eyes might be?

Elladan had not listened to her pleas. That very night he had ridden forth into the wild once again; no one in Imladris paid his departure much mind, as he had done much the same for countless years already. The only thing of note about his disappearance was that he had left alone, and not in the company of his brother, as he was usually wont to do. Lithiníel knew, however, that this time he had left because he did not want to be around her. The days passed, and still he did not return.

Although Lithiníel had tried to hide her torment of spirit, it did not take very long for her parents to realize something was amiss. When she had finally confessed, they were both shocked and disquieted -- very rarely did one of the Eldar develop feelings for another without those feelings being reciprocated -- but at length they decided that perhaps the best thing for her would be a change of scenery.

Some limited travel still took place between the Elves of Imladris and their brethren in Mirkwood and Lothlorien; indeed, Lithiníel possessed distant cousins, relations of her mother, in Caras Galadon, where the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn dwelled. So it was in her mother's company that Lithiníel departed Imladris, taking the southern route in the warmth of an early spring. They arrived some time later in Lorien, and her relatives took them in, rejoicing in their company.

But Lithiníel found no peace of heart under the _mallorns_, or in the society of the sylvan elves. She took to walking alone, brooding bitterly over her wayward heart and the way she had flung herself at Elladan's head. And it was in the midst of these dark ruminations that she finally realized it would be better to not live at all rather than continue in such pain. From that bleak epiphany she went on to plan how best to end things -- sometimes one of the Eldar might will himself to die, but somehow that hadn't seemed like quite a dramatic enough gesture.

Finally she stole out one night, and took from its mooring place one of the small, elegant boats the Galadhrim used to navigate the upper reaches of the Anduin. She knew the Great River grew treacherous, and descended in a great waterfall before continuing its southern course. All the better. Let the boat be broken upon the falls, and her body with it.

"But that is not what happened," the Dark Lord said as she hesitated, the words that had flooded from her lips suddenly stilled.

Lithiníel felt a shiver run through her, and replied, "No, apparently not. I had retreated far within myself, to a place where the outer world no longer touched me. Somehow the boat must have survived the falls, and continued down the river. I have no knowledge of that, or of where I finally came to rest." She looked up at him then, not sure whether she should be grateful that she could not make out the features beneath the deep cowled hood. "But I heard a voice in the darkness, and somehow made my way back to the world of the living."

"It was my voice you heard," he said. "It would not do to have your spirit wandering so far away."

If he thought she would thank him for that, then he was sorely mistaken. Better to have let her soul slip its bonds from the flesh that held it here in Middle Earth -- especially if she had lived, only to become the Dark Lord's prisoner.

"Truly you are powerful," she said, and again found herself surprised by the mocking edge that had entered her voice. Perhaps some part of her merely wished to provoke him into making an end of things.

But he refused to be baited. "Yes," he replied simply.

All this time he had stood still, listening to her tale, but at last he moved forward until he stood next to the bed where she lay, so close that the edge of one dragging sleeve brushed against her coverlet. Lithiníel shivered once more.

He remained there for a moment, regarding her in silence. Then he said, "But you are weary, and need to rest. We will speak further on the morrow."

She opened her lips to say that no, she didn't feel at all fatigued, but even as she did so an odd languor came over her, a lassitude that spread from her shoulders and back all the way down to the tips of her fingers and toes. Blackness washed over her, and she at last sank into the oblivion she had sought.


	2. Two

I am shocked and made very, very happy by the many reviews my first chapter received. Thank you to everyone -- I am pushing gamely forward despite some extremely unsettling disruptions that have occurred in my life this past week. Here's hoping that they don't continue for much longer!

* * *

Two

Somewhere above the dun-gray cloud of fume and smoke that hovered over Barad Dûr, the sun rose and then sank again, its passing barely noted by the inhabitants of the tower. Sauron could feel the movement of the hated yellow orb, his sharpened senses telling him when blessed darkness fell once again on Middle Earth. Uncounted floors and stairways above his throne room in the citadel, a lost Elven maiden slumbered on in unnatural sleep.

She would wake again when he desired her to. Until then, he found he had much to think upon.

Her excesses would have surprised him, if he had not seen the pride and passion of the House of Finwë in earlier ages. True, he had no way of knowing whether this young _elleth_ could trace a connection back so far, but he could have sworn he had seen that arrogant lift of the chin many long years ago.

_Lithiníel_. A curious name for an elf-maid, but fitting, given the unusual pale ash-gray color of her eyes. A child-name, probably given to her soon after she was born. She had offered no other -- not that Sauron had expected her to. But the first-name was enough, as he truly did not care overmuch who she was or where she had come from. It only mattered that she was here now.

Suicide wasn't unknown among the Eldar, but usually they had far greater cause to seek it out than merely a thwarted longing for another. As he had listened to her story, Sauron had found himself rather surprised to hear Lithiníel relate the tale of her sorrows with so little attempt at hiding the truth. Then again, perhaps she had guessed that telling him any falsehoods would be a fruitless endeavor at best.

He did not pretend to understand her when she spoke of love. It was an emotion utterly alien to him, an odd drive that caused Elves and Men alike to act in strange, unpredictable ways. Occasionally it could even be useful, a weakness that might be exploited. But of course he had never experienced it for himself.

Desire he did understand, at least the need to possess and control. And once, back in the time when he still could assume whatever form he chose, he had taken on the shape of a Man of Númenor, and lain with a woman who made it her business to satisfy the physical needs of Men. He had found the experience somewhat pleasurable, but certainly not so earth-shaking as to require a repeat performance. No, it had given him some insight into the world of Men -- which was all he had sought in the first place -- but truth be told, he still couldn't quite understand why those acts had acquired such importance in the minds of mortal men...or, to a lesser extent, to the Eldar themselves.

But this aching need to cleave unto another, to devote one's whole life to that person -- no, that made little sense, and although he felt somewhat pleased that the young_ elleth_ had revealed so much of her past to him, he did not pretend to understand her motivations in the slightest. That was not what mattered here.

At first he had thought, when he commanded the Lord of the Nazgûl to bring her to Barad Dûr, that he would merely toy with her awhile, amusing himself by inventing special tortures for her and thereby wreaking a casual revenge for what her people had done to him in the past. But now he realized that since she had sought to end her own life, threatening her with death would serve no purpose. No, the best punishment he could mete out now would be to let her live.

Smiling to himself, Sauron swept on toward his throne room. He would make sure that her sleep lasted awhile longer. In the meantime, there was much to be done.

* * *

Consciousness returned slowly, like a hesitant tide finding its way to shore. Lithiníel opened her eyes at last, hoping with all her being that it had been a terrible nightmare, that she would awaken safe in her bed in Imladris, or, failing that refuge, at least in the airy loft bedroom which had been given over to her use while she visited in Lorien. 

No hope for it, though -- what met her gaze was the gloomily elegant bedchamber where she had awoken the last time, where the shadowy form of a dark lord had stood only a few paces away from her. She shuddered. Could she really have lain here and held a conversation with Sauron?

At least he was nowhere in evidence now, she realized, as she sat up and surveyed the room with some caution. Although the light that made its way past the heavy draperies was murky and dim, as if filtered through some unimaginable haze, it _was _daylight at least. Even Mordor didn't lie in perpetual night, it seemed.

Although the lord of the land apparently had business to occupy him elsewhere, that didn't mean Lithiníel was alone. As she looked over toward the hearth, she saw the slight figure of what looked like a young mortal woman crouched there, evidently tending to the fire.

At first Lithiníel felt only surprise to see someone in Barad Dûr who was neither orc nor some other dark creature, but she remembered she had been taught that Sauron had many vassals in Middle Earth, including the Men who lived to the south and east of Mordor.

"Good morning," Lithiníel said softly in Westron, as she doubted the girl had any knowledge of Elven speech.

The young woman started, dropping the log she had been about to place on the fire. Then she backed away from the hearth, stood quickly, and made a hasty curtsey. Her eyes were wide and dark, and she looked on Lithiníel with a mixture of awe and fear.

She did not speak, however, so Lithiníel went on, "Thank you for minding the fire."

The girl merely looked puzzled at that remark, as if she couldn't quite comprehend why Lithiníel would be thanking her for such as simple task. Lithiníel had to remind herself that servants did exist in the world of men, or at least so she had read. In Imladris the work of keeping the great household going had been shared amongst its residents, although Lithiníel noticed that it was the younger members who usually had the most onerous duties. Certainly she'd never seen Lord Elrond sweeping out the Hall of Fire, or scrubbing the scullery floor. Several times, however, he had surprised her by cheerfully joining in the mucking-out of the stables.

Common courtesy didn't seem to be getting her anywhere. Lithiníel asked, "Have you a name?"

At that question the girl appeared vaguely insulted, but she replied, "Sarna, my lady."

The name was as exotic and strange as the girl's accent and her appearance -- her dark olive skin and black hair and eyes suggested that she or at least her ancestors had hailed from Harad, or possibly Rhûn. "Have I been asleep long, Sarna?" Lithiníel inquired, guessing that any further attempt to show gratitude for what the girl plainly saw as her duty would only be met with further confusion.

Sarna nodded. "A day and a night, and a day again."

Well, that would explain the odd sluggishness Lithiníel felt, the heaviness of her limbs. Apparently the Dark Lord had powers she couldn't begin to comprehend. For whatever reason, it had pleased him that she should sleep far beyond what her body might have required to recover from its ordeal.

Lithiníel thought on that for a moment, recalling how Sauron had stepped close to her bed, and had told her she needed to rest. No doubt at that moment he had bent his will upon her so she would fall into an unnatural slumber. She wondered if she had waked upon his whim as well.

"Have you ever seen him?" she asked suddenly. "The lord of this land?"

In reply Sarna gave her a look of terror, and a violent shake of the head. "No, my lady," the girl replied, the horror in her voice clear despite her accent. "He rarely leaves his throne room, but when he does -- when he walks the citadel -- we are all ordered back to our quarters. I've heard that even when visiting lords and ambassadors come to seek an audience with him, they speak to his servant, that Mouth of Sauron, while he sits behind a screen and gives his commands."

_So should I feel honored_, Lithiníel thought, _that he came to see me privately, with no ceremony? Or should that personal attention worry me more than anything else?_

To that she could make no satisfactory answer, so she said only, "And what now, since I have finally awakened? What are your orders concerning me?"

Appearing relieved that Lithiníel had abandoned the subject of her master, Sarna said, "Only that you are to be allowed to bathe, and then dress."

The thought of a hot bath sounded immediately cheering, although Lithiníel somehow doubted the lord of Mordor had issued such commands merely to make her feel more comfortable. But it would do her little good to protest, and since she still wore the bedraggled gray gown she had put on before stealing out to take the boat from Lorien, a change of clothing could only be to her benefit.

So she summoned a smile, and said, "That would be lovely."

Sarna replied, "I'll see to it immediately, my lady," then hurried out, obviously thankful that she had a good excuse to flee the room.

Lithiníel wondered a bit at her attitude, but then again, she had never had to deal with servants before and knew very little of how they were supposed to behave. Perhaps the girl was merely nervous to be around one of the Eldar. It was entirely possible that Sarna had never seen an Elf before.

In any case, she returned quickly enough, accompanied this time by two Men so like her in appearance that they must have been countrymen. They deposited the heavy wooden tub they carried in front of the bath and then departed, not even casting one curious glance in Lithiníel's direction. Possibly they had been instructed not to look at her. Sarna placed an odd little folding table next to the bath, and then set several towels and a comb down on top of it.

After that, the servant girl laid a dark gown across one of the heavy upholstered chairs which flanked the room's single window. "I will wait outside, my lady," she said. "Please call my name at the door if you should need anything."

"Of course," Lithiníel replied, and watched as the girl exited the chamber once more. Then she pushed back the covers and lowered her legs over the side of the bed. It sat fairly high off the ground, and the floor of polished black oak met her feet with a noticeable thud as she dropped down onto the hard surface.

It felt strange to stand again, and odder still to walk across the room, as if her legs had been unused for so long that they couldn't quite remember how to move. Staggering slightly, she made her way over to the window and pulled the heavy draperies of red and black cut velvet aside. Although somewhere deep inside Lithiníel knew that she would not much like what she saw, somehow she also knew that she had to face the worst and make her peace with it.

The landscape outside seemed to mirror the stark reds and blacks and stone grays of the chamber she now occupied. It had to be close to sunset, judging by the bloody hue of the sun as it dipped down past the high, jagged tower she spied off to the extreme right of the window. The air seemed dark and heavy, choked with smoke and vapor that must have arisen from Mount Orodruin, although she could not see the fiery peak from her current vantage point. To every side Lithiníel saw more towers and battlements and high walls, courtyards of stone and cruel barbed crenellations.

But nowhere did she see one green, growing thing, one hint that a world of clean water and blue skies existed beyond this accursed place. Her heart sank within her, and she shut her eyes, then pulled the draperies closed once more. How could she possibly bear it? How could she force herself to go on, here in the center of the Dark Lord's realm, when she hadn't desired to live even in the serene surroundings of Imladris or Lorien?

She had read of those of the Eldar who had willed themselves to die, and perhaps that was her only recourse now -- perhaps she should just go back to the bed, lie down, and find the means to send her spirit forth from her body, thereby escaping this place. Somewhere deep inside, however, she felt the tiniest flicker of curiosity. Why had Sauron shown her such consideration? Why had she been installed here as an honored guest, instead of a prisoner?

Driven by a sudden thought, Lithiníel crossed the room and laid her hand upon the heavy wrought-iron door handle. It didn't move, which led her to believe that it must be locked from the outside. So apparently she was a prisoner, albeit one with a highly luxurious cell.

There being nothing else to do, she turned and went to the bath, pulling off her gown and dropping it on the floor. She sank into the warm water, and forced herself to think only of how good it felt to get clean again, to work the soapy solution that had been left for her through her hair and along her bare arms. And how wonderful it felt afterward, to dry herself with the towel Sarna had provided, and run the comb through her long hair.

The gown the servant girl had left for Lithiníel's use was black velvet bordered in silver and red embroidery, with a heavy belt of linked silver discs. It felt heavy and alien, very unlike the lighter fabrics of Elven weave she was used to. But although the style and colors were foreign, she could appreciate the workmanship that had gone into its fashioning. Where it had come from, she couldn't begin to guess, but she surmised that Sauron must have tailors and weavers to supply his vast armies, and perhaps some of them had been given the task of producing her gown.

It was only after she had finished dressing and combed her hair once more that Lithiníel realized she was very, very hungry. As well she might be -- the last food she could remember eating had to have been days ago back in Lorien. And even then she had been unable to consume much more than some fruit and bread, so tense had she been at the thought of what lay ahead.

Obviously her body intended for her to go on living, or it wouldn't now be telling her how much it needed nourishment. She hated to ask for anything, given where she was, but Lithiníel knew she couldn't go on indefinitely without something to eat. So she set the comb back down on the little folding table, then went to the door and said, in low but clear tones, "Sarna? Are you there?"

Almost immediately the door swung inward; Lithiníel was forced to step back in some haste to avoid getting struck in the shoulder. "Yes, my lady?" the girl asked, peering through the doorway.

Never had a request felt so awkward. "Might I -- might I have something to eat? You see, it's been a very long while since my last meal..." Lithiníel trailed off as she noted the look of worry that passed across Sarna's face.

"I'm sorry, my lady, but I have been instructed that you should have no food."

For a second Lithiníel just stared at the girl, and then had a sudden mad impulse to laugh. Did Sauron mean to starve her? Surely one such as he could come up with a more inventive torture than that!

Whatever emotion had shown itself in her features, apparently it discomfited Sarna enough that the girl said hastily, "Oh, just for now, my lady. You are to be brought down for your evening meal -- later. When you're called for."

Lithiníel didn't bother to ask who would be calling for her. So the Dark Lord wished to invite her for supper? A feast of poisoned meats and foul drink, no doubt. Well, although her body craved sustenance, she knew she could go on for some time longer without perishing. Despite their sometimes fragile appearance, the Eldar were in reality as strong and unyielding as the very roots of the mountains. To be sure, she had never been forced to the limits of her endurance before, but the very fact that she had somehow survived the journey by boat down the Anduin proved in some way that she possessed -- despite everything -- a strong will to survive.

"Very well," she said. "Then I will wait here upon the Dark Lord's pleasure." Even as she spoke the words, however, a thrill of unease worked its way up her back. _And what will that pleasure be, I wonder? To devise new ways to torment me?_

Sarna only nodded, then shut the door once more. And Lithiníel turned and made her way to the window again, so that she could catch the last fading rays of sunset. For all she knew, she might never look upon the sun again.

* * *

Darkness fell, and gloom overtook the chamber Lithiníel had begun to think of as her prison cell. At least she hadn't been left in utter blackness; she'd found a heavy candelabrum wrought of black iron on the mantel. She took one of the candles from its holder and touched it off it from the fire, then used it to light its fellows. But even the illumination from the dark yellow tapers wasn't enough to hold back the shadows that seemed to move and rustle in the corners of her room. 

She couldn't be sure anymore whether it was fear or simple hunger that knotted her stomach, that caused her ever-increasing sense of weakness and malaise. Perhaps this was simply how Sauron wished to play with her, to leave her alone and allow her own mind to invent its own torments. Certainly her imagination had already invented several gruesome ends.

Finally, though, after she'd begun to wonder if it were possible to go mad through sheer inactivity, the door to her chamber opened. Sarna stepped inside, carrying a small lantern that contained a stub of a candle. "He will see you now," she said, and even in the dim candlelight Lithiníel could see the fear in her eyes.

_What must it be like_, she thought, _to serve a master who terrifies you by his very existence?_ Back in the comfort and peace of Imladris, she had thought very little of Sauron's servants, save that they must be foolish and corrupt to serve such a lord, but perhaps the matter was more complicated than that. Perhaps Sarna had come to her position here in the citadel through a mere accident of birth, and not because of any true belief in the lord of Mordor's cause.

Those thoughts caused a little abstracted frown to pull at her brows, and Lithiníel followed Sarna out of the room still distracted by the odd notion that perhaps the denizens of Mordor were not the quite the undifferentiated mass she had first believed them to be. Certainly there was nothing threatening about the servant girl, despite her exotic appearance and odd accent. Had she been born here, somewhere in the bowels of the enormous citadel, whose dark hallways passed by like something out of a nightmare? Or had she been born elsewhere, perhaps under a hot southern sun, and brought to Barad Dûr to spend her life in servitude? Did she ever long to run away, to go someplace where the sky was blue and she could feel the wind against her face?

Lithiníel knew that she herself did, but if nothing else, her ruminations on the girl who led her through the shadowy corridors of Sauron's citadel helped keep her fear in check, took her mind away from the horror of her surroundings. Despite its status as the heart of the Dark Lord's realm, Barad Dûr seemed strangely quiet and empty, the hallways and stairs she traversed curiously devoid of activity. Then she recalled how Sarna had told her that Sauron would order his followers away when he wished to walk through the tower unobserved, and thought that very likely a similar order had been given now. Whatever the case, she felt a small flicker of relief that her passing hadn't been scrutinized by hordes of orcs or Easterling soldiers. She doubted very much that Sauron had done so for her benefit, but she would give thanks anyway.

At length they halted outside a pair of double doors of carved ebony wood. Here Sarna paused, saying, "I may not enter, my lady, but you are ordered to do so. The doors are not locked." And with that she sketched a quick curtsey and all but fled down the corridor, back the way they had come.

For a few seconds, Lithiníel could only stare after the girl's departing form. Part of her wished she could run after Sarna as well, flee all the way back to the chamber that now seemed oddly comforting. But although it seemed as if she were alone, she did not think she would get very far if she were to try something so foolish -- if she were even able to retrace her steps through the twisting mazes of the citadel.

Instead, she reached out to touch the cold iron of the door handle, and pushed the door inward.

The chamber that met her gaze was far larger than her own room, but long and rectangular in shape instead of nearly square. Here as well were the same dark stone floors and walls. She saw no windows. Indeed, even with her sharp Elven eyes she had a difficult time picking out any details, since only a few candle flames served to illuminate the darkness. She noticed a long table, a hearth where the fire had burned down to smoldering coals. The air felt chill, and suddenly she was glad of the heavy gown Sarna had brought for her to wear.

His voice came from somewhere within the shadows. "Welcome, Lithiníel."

Despite herself, she started. Then she straightened, lifting her chin. If he wished to play at theatricals, so be it. But she would not let him see the fear that coursed through her veins like her very blood, nor the dread which made her wonder if every breath she took would be her last. "Thank you, my lord," she replied, cool as if she were speaking to Lord Elrond, and not Mordor's overlord.

"No doubt you are hungry," he said, and at last she saw him, a deeper shade of black against the tenebrous gloom of the far end of the chamber. As she watched, he took a few steps toward the far end of the table. "You will sit."

Since she knew better than to defy him so openly, Lithiníel made her way over to the table and then took the seat he had indicated. The chair was a heavy carved affair of more ebony wood, quite difficult to wrestle with, but somehow she managed to pull it away from the table and sit down without appearing to struggle overmuch.

Once she was done, he seated himself as well, in an even larger chair located at the head of the table. Even separated from him by only an arm's span or so, Lithiníel could make out nothing distinct in his appearance. The heavy robes covered every inch of his huge form, and the cowl of his hood drooped low enough that she saw nothing of his face.

_If he even has one_, she thought, and shuddered despite herself. He seemed corporeal enough, but perhaps under the enveloping garments he, like the Nazgûl, was no more than a wraith. The unreality of the situation hit her then, and Lithiníel was glad of the sturdy chair on which she sat, for she could feel a definite unsteadiness in her knees. Could she possibly be sitting here, facing the Sauron of dark legend? Certainly she must be dreaming.

But somehow she knew she was not, however much she might wish such a thing were true; the chair was hard beneath her legs, the air smoky and yet cold. A plate of darkly burnished pewter gleamed before her, as did a goblet of similar make. Surely she wouldn't be seeing things in such detail if this were only a terrible nightmare.

Sauron reached out to lift a flagon of wine that looked almost black in the dimness of the room, and poured a good measure into her own goblet, then did the same with the one which sat in front of him. The sleeve of his robe fell back to show that his hand was encased in a black leather glove, a glove that looked strangely distorted until she realized the ring finger on that hand was missing.

_Of course_, she thought. _That is the hand where once he wore the Ring._

It seemed as if a weight descended on her mind, and she gasped a little, jerking her gaze away. For a second she thought she caught a glimmer of pale eyes within the hood, and then Sauron turned slightly. The pressure lifted as suddenly as it had come.

Lithiníel would not allow herself to draw a relieved breath, but instead sat very still, staring at the goblet of garnet-colored liquid. She wondered in sudden horror if it were filled with blood.

"It is merely wine from Dorwinion; it will do you no harm." Again the Dark Lord's tone seemed to indicate a certain amusement, and Lithiníel felt herself flush. But perhaps Sauron's eyes were not quite good enough to notice such a thing in the near-darkness of the dining chamber.

_No harm, except what might come from drinking such a heady vintage on an empty stomach_, she thought, but she knew better than to refuse. On some occasions in the past she had drunk the wine of Dorwinion, once she was of an age for such things. She understood quite well how strong it was. So she lifted the goblet to her lips, and took the smallest of sips.

Nothing about it tasted amiss; indeed, it was quite good, even smoother and richer than she remembered. Perhaps this particular specimen had aged even longer the ones Elrond kept in the wine cellars at Imladris. But Lithiníel could also feel the warmth from the wine as it made its way down her throat, and she knew she would have to be very, very careful.

"No opinion?" Sauron asked.

"It's very good," she replied, then set the goblet down on the table and folded her hands in her lap. They looked white and frail against the black velvet of her gown.

He said nothing, but Lithiníel thought she saw him shift a little. Whether that was some sort of signal or not, she couldn't be sure. But in the next moment, the door opened again, and two servants, both Men, entered the room bearing trays laden with food. She noted that they kept their eyes cast down toward the floor as they made their way over to the table, set the assorted dishes on its dark, shining surface, and then placed a generous portion of the various foods on both her and Sauron's plates. That startled her; for some reason she hadn't thought the Dark Lord would require sustenance like a normal living being. Then the servants left as quietly as they had come.

The smell of roast fowl met her nostrils, and Lithiníel swallowed, feeling her stomach come to sudden, ravening life at the scent of hot food. Obviously that voracious organ didn't scruple at sating itself in the company of the Dark Lord.

He grasped a heavy iron fork in one hand, then paused, the cowled hood turning in her direction. "It is merely roast waterfowl, and some vegetables. My orcs can survive on foul meat if necessary, but finer things grace my tables. But if you don't trust me -- " With that he lifted a forkful of goose in the general direction of his mouth; the utensil disappeared somewhere within the shadowy darkness of his hood, only to reappear empty a few seconds later.

Somehow Lithiníel managed to summon the courage to say, "You will forgive me, my lord, if I tell you that I find it difficult to trust you."

"Have I given you any reason not to?" he inquired, before spearing another forkful of fowl.

Based on her own experiences, no -- save for that odd pressure on her throat, so brief she could almost have imagined it -- but that meant very little. For whatever reason , he had decided to play the gracious host with her. However, that role would only last until he wearied of it. And after that --

Better not to voice such doubts aloud, though. Lithiníel inclined her head, then replied, "No, my lord, I suppose you have not." Unable to ignore the urgings of her empty stomach any longer, she took a bite of the roast goose. It was excellent, cooked to perfection, and accompanied by an unfamiliar sweetish sauce that did very well to cut through the slight gaminess of the wildfowl. Good, too, were the tiny fingerling potatoes, and the unusual dish of carrots and raisins. Indeed, the fare was good enough to have been served at Lord Elrond's own table.

He said nothing for a moment, but merely sat and watched as she ate. Perhaps the food was drugged, or bespelled in some way -- perhaps after only a few more bites she would be cast into an enchanted sleep for a hundred years, like the princess in an old tale of Gondor she had once read a long, long time ago. But nothing happened, except that the aching emptiness in her stomach gradually receded.

After a bit Sauron resumed his own meal, albeit in a leisurely fashion. Feeling a little braver, Lithiníel allowed herself another small taste of the Dorwinion wine. Looking up, she saw the Dark Lord raise more food to his invisible mouth. Almost immediately he set his fork down, the hood tilting to one side.

"You stare."

She looked away at once. Had she been staring? Perhaps even the small amount of wine she had consumed had been enough to muddle her wits. "I did not mean to," she said. "It is only -- that is, I did not ever think that you would require food."

"Perhaps not in the manner you think," he replied. The gloved fingers touched the heavy blackened iron of the fork that lay next to his plate, but he said nothing more.

_In what way, then?_ Lithiníel wondered, but did not voice the question aloud. The land of Mordor and its dark steward had never been a topic that had particularly interested her -- she had always thought herself safe in Imladris -- but of course she knew Sauron's history. Not as great in might as one of the Valar, still he was far more than a Man or Elf, an immortal being of immense powers. Certainly she had never imagined him sitting down to dinner as any other denizen of Middle Earth might. In some ways she was surprised that he had any physical form at all. Her studies, scanty as they had been, had somehow led her to believe that he was now, in this latter age, little more than a spirit of malice.

But it was no spirit who sat across the table from her and methodically consumed the contents of his plate. Nor, she thought, was it a wraith who lifted his goblet and drank of the rich wine it contained. Once again she was startled by the realization that many of her assumptions had apparently been quite wrong. Of course, just because Sauron could eat a real meal or reach casually across the table to pour more wine into her goblet -- as he did even while she sat there, lost in thought -- didn't mean that he was innocent of the multitude of evil deeds he had perpetrated over the ages.

Still, Lithiníel had an odd sense that something about the world had tilted slightly, that her perspective had suffered some small, strange shift. Or perhaps it was merely that she had had, despite her caution, a little too much wine to drink.

"You will waste it," she said, after Sauron had set the flagon of wine back down on the table. "I couldn't possibly drink that much."

He only shrugged. "Perhaps."

Was that what he had intended, to set her drunk? But for what purpose? Surely, as his little demonstration had proven a few days earlier, he did not need wine to send her spinning off into unconsciousness.

The memory chilled her, and she set down her folk, carefully laying it tines down across her plate as she had been taught. "I believe I am finished," she said, ignoring her full wine goblet.

Once again he remained silent for a moment. Then he inquired, hood tilting slightly to one side, "Do I frighten you?"

What a question! An immediate denial rose to her lips, but Lithiníel paused, wondering if he sought to trick her in some way. She looked directly into the black recesses of his hood, and replied simply, "Yes."

Her reply elicited a low laugh. "You have my thanks, Lithiníel."

Puzzled, she continued to stare at him, at the faceless shape that somehow possessed a voice like a deep, pure woodwind. "For what?"

"Your honesty."

If asked, Lithiníel would have said that honesty had to be the quality least valued by the lord of Mordor. However, her answer seemed to have satisfied him -- or at least amused him -- so she merely bowed her head in acknowledgement. "Then you are welcome, my lord," she said.

He raised his glass once again and drank. Perhaps he mocked her refusal to consume any more wine -- or perhaps not. She found it difficult to tell.

"I am weary, my lord," she said then, and found that it was no more than the simple truth. Surely no one, even one of the Eldar, could have endured for long in the Dark Lord's company? "Have I your leave to withdraw?"

"So soon?" he asked, and this time she could not help but hear the mocking edge to his voice. "Should I be offended that you weary of my company after hardly more than an hour in it?"

"Perhaps you should be flattered that your presence is so overwhelming that I, a simple _elleth_, can only manage it in small doses."

At that he laughed outright, and spread an arm toward the door. As if in answer, it opened, and one of the servants who had brought in their meal stood there, waiting. "Go then, Lithiníel," he said. "Run away to your refuge. I shall call for you again when it pleases me."

His words aroused an odd mixture of relief and fear, but she did not stop to examine them further. She rose from her seat, bowed her head in the ancient gesture of farewell, then hurried to the door, thankful that she should be released so easily. It was only after she had been locked back into her luxurious prison cell that the worry began to gnaw at her once again.

What did he want with her, after all? Perhaps his unending days here in the dark had become so weary that he sought any sort of diversion. That thought heartened her a little, until another one came to her unbidden.

Would her life end when her ability to amuse him ended as well?


	3. Three

Thanks, Lintered, for asking about cover art -- I kept forgetting to mention it in my author's notes! Yes, I've made a cover for _Heart's Blood_; the link is in my profile, toward the bottom. And since several people have asked about it, no, this isn't the same world/Sauron from _Only Eyes to See_ and _Inheritance_. Different story, different interpretation. The same goes for the Lord of the Nazgûl and any other characters the stories might share in common. Fast update this time -- I had a lot of time to write over the weekend. :-)

* * *

Three

The upper halls of the citadel, as commanded, lay empty and quiet around him. On the lower levels and barracks, life no doubt continued much as it always had, but the lord of Mordor desired to walk his corridors unnoted and alone, and so his servants and slaves found innumerable reasons to occupy themselves elsewhere.

It had been more than an age of Men since he had last shared a meal with anyone, and Sauron still felt a small stirring of surprise at himself for doing that very thing only a few scant hours ago. At the time he had only thought to discomfit and disturb his guest, but she had carried herself with an aplomb he had not expected, especially in an _elleth_ so young. Oh, of course at the end she had sought to flee, and he had allowed her to do so. By that time he had begun to weary a little of the game, especially since she had shown little sign of distress.

Now, however, he was beginning to question his decision to let her leave so soon. Surely if he had forced her to stay, he could have wrung a little more discomfort from her ordeal...as she must surely have viewed the hour they had shared. No one ever wanted to spend any more time in his company than they absolutely had to, not even his most trusted servants.

Despite that, she had sat down to table at him and eaten almost normally, and somehow had found the courage to offer him a bit of cheek there at the end. Luckily for her, he had been inclined to feel entertained by that show of spirit. Let her lift her chin and give him a bit of sauce, as it were, if that made her feel better. It didn't change the fact that she was his prisoner, even though she lay now in a cell with silken hangings and a warm fire, and not a cramped compartment of stone somewhere in the lower depths of his dungeons.

Perhaps the long years of separation from his precious Ring had begun to make him soft. Sauron paused then, in an alcove off one corridor where a narrow window allowed a small view of Mount Doom, and felt himself frown. No, that couldn't be it -- after all, he had just ordered the last ambassador from Far Harad thrown to Shelob after it had been determined that the tribute he brought fell woefully short of what had been promised. The overgrown arachnid had been subsisting on orcs for far too long, and no doubt the plump dignitary made her a fine meal.

But somehow the Dark Lord felt his thoughts lingering on the young Elf woman, on the smooth oval of her face, the way the blood had rushed to her cheeks when he taunted her about her mistrust of the wine. Perhaps she had thought he wouldn't be able to see her flush, dim as the room had been, but Sauron had night eyes better than any _uruk_'s. He had to admit that her countenance was a welcome change from orcs and trolls and even the swarthy features of the Men he had in his service. Once upon a time, he had been even more fair to look upon than she.

That thought made him scowl, however, and he turned from the window and stalked down the corridor, heading back toward his throne room, where he spent the bulk of his time. Lithiníel slept, he knew, several stories above the hallway he now traversed, but that particular escape was denied him. Sometimes he envied lesser beings their ability to leave the world behind, since he had been doomed to eternal watchfulness.

It was not that he thought her particularly beautiful, as beauty had no real power to move him. Something in the symmetry of her features was welcome, however; it was an echo of the order he cherished. Orcs and trolls and such had their uses, but even he had to admit they did little to improve the landscape. He preferred to use Men as his servants here in Barad Dûr. They were less unruly, less likely to break out into brawls and squabbles. Let the _uruks_ guard the lower levels of the tower and the borders of his kingdom. He did not, however, want them to bring him his evening meal. Too messy.

It engaged his mind to speak with Lithiníel in Quenya, in a tongue he had had no reason to use for many a long year. It had subtleties the Black Speech lacked. He noted slight differences in her pronunciation from his, vowels softened and lengthened, an interesting lilt at the ends of some of her words. These could have been a result of the long years that had passed since he'd last had reason to speak the language, or an idiosyncrasy which had arisen among Elrond's people. But her voice was sweet, a definite change from the harsh accents of the orcs or even the Haradrim and Easterlings, and he found he wished to hear more of it.

Somehow his wanderings brought him here, to pause outside her door. On a narrow pallet next to the entrance to her chamber lay the maidservant who had been assigned to watch over the Elf-maid; the Haradrim girl shifted on her uncomfortable bed, but did not awake as the Dark Lord paused there.

He reached out to touch the smooth black wood of the doorjamb, thinking of the _elleth_ who slept within. For she did sleep, that much he could tell. He did not have the gift of reading the thoughts of others, but he sensed her presence within, the slow, steady rhythm of her heartbeat. He imagined her lying there, dark hair spread across the pillow as he had seen it first a few days earlier, black lashes fanned against her pale skin. What would she do if she awakened to see him there once more, standing over her bed like a watchful shadow? He had done so before; perhaps she would be less startled this time.

But even as his hand moved toward the latch, he felt the dark flicker at the edge of his consciousness that meant the Lord of the Nazgûl was trying to contact him through the palantír. Sauron could make him wait -- but for what? The Elf-maiden certainly wasn't going anywhere. So he turned and left, allowing her to sleep undisturbed.

* * *

Somewhere beyond the confines of the world, Lithiníel found herself on a silvery shore. She had never seen the sea, but it called to her, as it did to all her kind -- the inescapable draw of the Utter West, and Valinor. 

She did not know if that was where she now walked, feeling the cool water wash over her bare feet. It could be Elvenhome, or merely the Grey Havens, the harbor from whence so many of her people had departed Middle Earth forever. It certainly was grey here, sky and sea the same silvery shade, but the overall impression was not drab at all, but rather soothing and gentle, as if all harsh contrast had been smoothed away.

How she had come here, she did not know, for even among the Eldar dreams did not always follow any real logic. It seemed the most natural thing in the world for her to walk along this forlorn strand, to feel the wind tug at her unbound hair and to sense the heaviness of her skirts as she held them draped over one arm to keep them out of the salt water. Gulls swooped overhead, and something about their wild cries awakened a strange ache in her heart.

Then she had the feeling that she was not alone. Turning, she saw a figure in pale robes striding along the shore toward her. As he came closer, she recognized him as one of the Eldar, probably one of her distant kin, with his dark hair and grey eyes, although she was sure she had never seen him before. But as he paused a few paces away from her, she noticed an odd intensity to those black-lashed eyes, a strange sense of power that seemed to shimmer off him like sunlight on water. He was very tall, taller than any other Elf she had ever seen.

Troubled suddenly, she stepped away from the water's edge, then dropped her skirts, ashamed of her bare feet and damp hem. Whoever he was, he did not seem the type before whom she would want to appear in such a bedraggled state. Something about him made her bow her head and murmur, "My lord."

"So formal," he asked, "when we are already acquainted?"

Lithiníel looked up then and stared at him, the pale silvery eyes, the high full cheekbones. His was not a face she would have easily forgotten, but she knew she had never seen him before.

"Not in this guise, perhaps," he went on.

"Then as what?" she inquired, but he only smiled, and gave her a sidelong glance.

"That is for you to discover, I think," he replied.

Something about his voice seemed oddly familiar, but she could not think where she might have heard it before. His raiment gave her no clues; it consisted of a simple high-collared long tunic in silver-grey silk, a garment similar to ones she had seen her father and others of the Eldar wear.

She turned away from the stranger to face the wide quicksilver expanse of the sea, feeling the breeze blow her hair back from her face. The smell of salt was strong. "Where are we?" she asked.

He stepped closer, and moved to face the strong sea wind alongside her. "Nowhere. Everywhere."

At that she looked up at him, noting how the pale pewter hues of the sea and sky seemed to be reflected in his eyes. "What kind of an answer is that?"

"The only one I can give."

Baffled, she glanced away. "They say all the Eldar dream of the sea, but this is the first time I have ever done so, at least that I can recall." Lithiníel paused, then added, "But does the dreamer usually speak of his dream while still in it?"

"That would depend on the dream, I think," the stranger said.

For a moment she remained silent, listening to the sound of the waves breaking against the shore. Where they stood the sand was almost dry, but she noticed that the delicate sea foam which edged each wave crept ever closer. The tide was coming in.

"This one does seem quite real," Lithiníel commented. "I can feel the sand beneath my feet, the wind on my face. But perhaps that is merely the dream trying to trick me."

"Perhaps."

She could read nothing from his face, nothing in the almost unearthly perfection of his features that would allow her to know what he might be thinking. Perhaps he was only another phantom, a ghost of unparalleled beauty that her mind had somehow conjured up to distract her from the loss of Elladan.

"Are you real?" she asked at last. "If I reached out to touch you, would I find only air in your place?"

His mouth curved up ever so slightly at one corner. "Do I look like air?"

That reply seemed to mock her, so in answer Lithiníel took a breath and reached out with one hand to touch him on his forearm. Before she could do so, however, he gripped her wrist in his own fingers, which were oddly hot against her skin.

"Does that feel real?" he inquired.

In fact, his touch felt more real than almost anything else ever had. His hand circled her slender wrist with ease. Never before had anyone touched her in such a way, and although she knew she should protest, somehow Lithiníel felt no real desire to do so.

"Yes," she replied, staring up at him, making no move to withdraw her arm from his grasp.

For a moment they stood there, eyes locked, and then he laughed and released her. "You are a bold one, Lithiníel of Imladris. It has been a very long while since anyone surprised me."

She flushed, but only said, "And how long has that been?"

"Longer than you could begin to comprehend, little _elleth_." The silver-grey eyes lingered on her face for a moment. She felt very conscious of how close they stood to one another, his height, the ebony gleam of the heavy straight hair that brushed against his shoulders. Something inside her stirred, something that she had thought dead once she realized Elladan did not return her love.

_Don't be a fool_, she thought. _He is only a part of your dream, no true being of flesh and bone. Are you now going to give your affections over to a product of your fevered mind?_

His smile broadened, and he leaned down toward her. For one insane instant she thought he was about to kiss her, but instead his mouth brushed against her ear as he whispered, "Do not fear the darkness."

Then the world went black, sky and sea and stranger all disappearing into a shadow so absolute it seemed to take on its own shape and form. Lithiníel felt herself plunged into the dark, falling, screaming soundlessly, hands reaching out to catch herself in the nothingness, plummeting toward an end she couldn't imagine --

-- only to sit up, gasping, in the enormous bed which had been her resting place for the past few nights. The fire gave off just enough light that she could take some stock of her surroundings.

Nothing seemed to have changed. The heavy drapes were drawn against the darkness, and a lone candle burned on the table next to her bed where Sarna had placed it before retiring for the evening. Once the night had held no terrors for Lithiníel, but after her dinner with Sauron, she had been reluctant to lay her head down on the pillow without that friendly candle flame to keep her company.

She couldn't recall having made any sound, but the door opened suddenly, and Sarna peered inside, her face an indistinct blur in the half-hearted light. "My lady? Is anything amiss?"

_Besides being imprisoned in Barad Dûr?_ Lithiníel thought. _No, nothing is amiss._ But she wasn't sure Sarna would comprehend the sarcasm, so instead she replied, "Only a bad dream."

The servant girl gave a knowing nod, as if nightmares were all too frequent an occurrence in the Dark Lord's citadel. "I will be here just outside if you have need of me, my lady."

"I am sure I will be fine," Lithiníel said. "But thank you for your concern."

Sarna gave a quick curtsey, then shut the door once again. Lithiníel felt some unease in realizing that the poor girl must be sleeping on guard outside the entrance to the chamber, like some sort of glorified watchdog, but she also knew there was nothing she could do about the situation. So she settled herself back down against the pillows, and stared up in the half-dark. The ceiling above her was coffered ebony wood, and the light of the candle flame picked out faint traces of the carved patterns there.

Had it been a dream? she wondered. It had felt so real at the time that she was halfway surprised to find herself back in bed, in the simple shift of bleached linen Sarna had given her to sleep in, rather than the damp-edged gown of heavy silk she had worn in the dream.

_Would that it were so easy to escape this place_, Lithiníel thought bitterly, and closed her eyes. _I would gladly sleep forever, if it meant I would be there instead of here._ She recalled the stranger who had stood beside her and stared out across the endless sea, the unearthly beauty of his face, the heat of his fingers as he grasped her wrist. Again she was caught by that sense of faint familiarity, as if there were something about him she should have recognized but somehow did not.

With a sigh, she closed her eyes. This was not strictly necessary, as she could enter sleep with them open as easily as shut, but at least if they were closed she could pretend to herself that she lay elsewhere, that she entered the kingdom of sleep from her own bed, and not here, surely the last place in the world anyone would think to look for her. Surely they all thought her dead, her mother and her mother's kin and those of the Galadhrim she had come to know during her short stay in Lorien. Perhaps by this time her mother had already departed for Imladris, taking the grievous news of her daughter's death to her husband.

_What a fool I have been_, Lithiníel thought. _I sought only to escape my own pain, and in doing so most surely have brought even greater pain on those who loved me._ All she could do was hope that somehow they would find it in themselves to forgive her for her folly. Perhaps the knowledge that one day they might meet again in Valinor would be enough to sustain them in their grief.

For now, however, she made herself take one deep, slow breath after another, willing sleep to steal her away. Perhaps if she were lucky, she would dream of him again...

* * *

Sauron released the palantír, then drew on his gloves once more. The Lord of the Nazgûl's message had come merely because he desired to report increasing encroachment by Men of Gondor in the southern reaches of Ithilien, but something odd had occurred when the Witch-king withdrew his mind from the seeing-stone and Sauron prepared to follow suit. In that split-second where he still hovered in the world of spirit and shadow, he had found himself someplace very far away, on a nameless shore, where the waves met the sand and gulls cried endlessly overhead. 

He had seen her there, real as she had been earlier that evening as she sat at his table, her back straight and her entire demeanor suggesting that she felt almost as uncomfortable in the heavy gown he had provided as she did in his company. But there, on that unknown strand beyond the edges of the world, she had been garbed in a simple pale gown that seemed to mold itself to her slender form as the wind blew the light fabric against her body. Her dark hair had whipped in the breeze like a banner, and her gaze had met his with some curiosity but no fear.

The reason made itself plain soon enough. He realized that there, in the dream place where they had found themselves, somehow he bore the form he thought he had lost endless ages ago in Númenor's fall. Gone was the unending ache in his hand, the bitter knowledge that he must forever shroud his face from the world. No, she had looked on him with wonder and curiosity, but none of the revulsion he knew he would see if she were ever to perceive him as he now was.

Of course she had desired to know his identity, but he knew better than to tell her the truth. For all his power, he was at a loss to explain how he had come there, save that perhaps her dream was so strong that it had somehow drawn him in, since he had already hovered at the edge of the world of spirit and vision because of his contact with the palantír. But he had also found something strangely enticing about his situation, that he could stand there next to her in her dream, could even be so bold as to take her fragile wrist in his hand and feel the pulse beating within its slender confines.

She had not tried to escape, this strange, wayward Elf-maid. If he had attempted such a thing in this world, surely she must have expired from fear. He had not felt the touch of another living thing in a very long time.

Perhaps that was why his scarred fingers now seemed to hold some trace memory of the smoothness of her skin and the coolness of her flesh, exposed as it had been to the strong sea breeze. As he had released her, a lock of her hair had been caught in the wind and brushed against his cheek. He hadn't realized that a few strands of hair could feel so much like silk.

Hesitating, he stood next to the small dais that held the seeing-stone, and wondered what would happen if he were to withdraw his gloves and place his naked hands upon the orb once again. Could he return there, to that wild place of sea and sky and shore? And if he did, would she be waiting there for him once again?

_Madness_, he thought, and deliberately turned his back on the palantír, forcing himself to leave the chamber and return to the greater comfort of his throne room. As always, his servant, his mouthpiece, hovered in the shadows near the entrance to the chamber, but Sauron brushed him away. He felt no desire to see or speak with anyone...save perhaps Lithiníel. But that would mean waking her, and if she still lingered on that twilight shore, what might she think of the one who had stolen her away from it?

_What she thinks is of no concern_, he told himself. _She lives only upon your pleasure, and if you desire to have speech with her, then she will do so._

He settled himself on his throne, then spoke to the watching darkness. "Send the Elf-maiden to me."

* * *

Hands pulled her from the borders of sleep, hands that touched her timidly but with purpose. "My lady!" 

Lithiníel opened her eyes and looked up into Sarna's worried face. As with the rest of her kind, Lithiníel waked quickly, with no lingering drowsiness or confusion. "What is it?"

"He wants to see you. Now."

No point in asking who "he" was. So Sauron was not content to let her sleep in peace? Very well. Her slumber had been fitful at best; she had tried to return to that lost shore in her dreams but had been unable to do so. If the Dark Lord wished to deprive her of rest, then so be it. After all, she had slept enough the past few days to make up for any shortfall she might experience this night.

She pushed herself out of bed, and glanced over at the chair where she had draped the gown she'd worn to dinner, but Sarna shook her head. "No time for that, my lady."

"Am I to go to him in my night clothes?" Lithiníel demanded, feeling a spark of outrage. Was all dignity to be denied her?

In answer Sarna held out a length of dark cloth that proved to be a heavy woolen shawl. "You can cover yourself with this, my lady."

Not bothering to reply, Lithiníel took the shawl from the servant girl and wrapped it around herself as best she could, covering up her bare arms and the low neckline of the chemise she wore.

Still with that worried expression puckering her brow, Sarna led Lithiníel out of her chamber and down a new set of stairs, to a section of the citadel she had never seen before.

_Not that I should be surprised_, she thought. _After all, I am sure this place is so large that it would take years to learn all of its secrets. _

She did try to pay attention to all of the twists and turns they took, attempting to engrave their route on her memory so that if she were ever given the opportunity to escape her room, she would have some idea of how to get around Sauron's stronghold. Even her keen Elven eyes had difficulty keeping track, however; in some corridors the only light provided was from the small lantern Sarna held before her, and Lithiníel could not make out enough detail to differentiate one hallway from another. This time she did finally see other denizens of Barad Dûr -- mainly squads of Men in odd, alien-looking armor, although once they did pass a group of orcs. Lithiníel kept her eyes down, refusing to look at them, and Sarna hurried her past as quickly as she could. The orcs made a few comments in their hideous language, and Lithiníel was glad she could not understand the Black Speech. She somehow doubted she would have cared to hear what they said.

At length they came to a set of lofty doors, and Sarna stopped. "He is inside, my lady," she said, her voice barely above a terrified whisper. "I will return for you when he bids me." And with that she turned and disappeared down the darkened corridor.

Lithiníel's own fear this time was overlaid with annoyance; after all, why had he summoned her here in the dead of night? On their journey Sarna had informed her that Sauron awaited her in his throne room -- hardly the place for torture or execution, Lithiníel had thought, but she entered warily just the same.

The tall doors opened into a space whose ceiling was so high that she had difficulty gauging how far above her it actually soared. Unlike the rest of the citadel, this chamber was almost well-lit; a series of thick pillars on black sconces burned against the walls of dark marble, and a set of waist-high candelabras to either side of the dais that dominated the room added their own illumination.

The Dark Lord sat in a tall throne of carved black stone, and watched her as she approached.

"You summoned me, my lord?" Lithiníel inquired. She did not bother to keep the irritation out of her voice. In their earlier encounter he had seemed almost amused by any display of spirit, so she saw no reason to hide her ill humor now.

"I did."

"And may I ask the reason for this summons?"

"You may ask," he replied, but said nothing further. Although of course she could not see his face, Lithiníel somehow got the impression he was smirking at her.

Losing her temper would get her nowhere -- although perhaps that was what he wanted, for her to provoke him. Or possibly he thought an explosion on her part would be amusing. Whatever the case, she forced herself to regard him with a blank expression, even though her fingers clenched around a fold of the shawl she wore as she held it in place.

For a moment they both were silent, Lithiníel as she stared up at him, Sauron as he watched her from within the recesses of his cowled hood. Then he asked, "Did you dream, Lithiníel?"

"Yes," she retorted. "At least, until you awakened me." Then she paused, gazing at him through narrowed eyes. "Why do you ask?"

He rose, seeming even more massive from his superior position atop the dais. "Did you dream of the sea?"

The words spilled out before she could stop them. "How could you know that?"

In answer he descended the steps of the platform until he stood a few paces away from her. "A grey shore, and a grey sky."

"That could describe many places," Lithiníel replied, but the note of bravado in her voice rang hollow even to her.

"Perhaps," Sauron allowed. "But you were not alone there, were you?"

"No," she said. The chamber seemed suddenly freezing, and she clutched the shawl more closely about her. With a shock, she recalled the stranger's words: _Not in this guise_, he had said. And now, once she had heard the Dark Lord speak again, she realized why she had thought the unknown being in her dream had seemed so familiar. Not his face, but the voice, the deep baritone with its faintly archaic intonation. She had not made the connection at the time, because of course she had been distracted by his appearance. The stranger who had stood beside her on the shore, who had lifted his perfect face to the wind, had been Sauron himself.

"How is this possible?" Lithiníel whispered. "How could you have gotten into my dream?" _And how could you have been so beautiful_, she thought, _when all the tales I have ever heard have spoken of you as nothing less than a monster?_

"I know many things, but this is a mystery even to me," Sauron replied. "This is why I called you here -- to ask if you indeed did see me in your dream."

"I did," she said, although she made the admission with reluctance. "I did not know it was you, or -- "

"Or you would have been less free with your answers?"

There was no hiding her flush here in the warmly lit chamber, but Lithiníel refused to look away from him. "Perhaps."

"Then I am glad you did not guess my identity," he replied. "I cannot fault you for that -- I am much...altered...from how I appeared to you."

So that much was true, after all. She was not sure whether or not to be thankful for the deep hood that shadowed his face. If the stories were true, then he must now be ravaged beyond recognition, but Lithiníel also realized she had an odd desire to see for herself. If he had begun so fair, how terrible could his visage have become?

But even if she had possessed the courage to reach out toward him and push the cowl back from his face, she knew he would never have allowed such an affront. No doubt he would have blasted her from this world the moment her fingers touched the edge of the garment.

"If you say so, my lord," she answered, in meek tones that hardly sounded like her own.

He laughed then, but once more he seemed genuinely amused rather than scornful. "Such humility does not become you, Lithiníel of Imladris. If I gave you leave to speak your mind, would you assert yourself more?"

"But would such leave truly be permission, or rather a trap?"

"If I assured you of one, you would not believe me -- and if I denied the other, you would not believe that as well."

Were it not for the gently mocking manner in which he had said those words, Lithiníel might have worried that she had angered him. For whatever reason, he still looked on her as a diversion -- and for one who had lived so long, a diversion might be a truly valuable thing.

"I will trust your words, my lord," she said. "And I hope that you will trust mine as well. Truthfully, I never imagined it could be you in my dream, because no one had ever told me that the lord of Mordor might be as fair as one of the Valar."

"That is because he is not," Sauron said. "And hasn't been for uncounted years. All things in this world change, if one gives them enough time." Something that sounded almost like a sigh drifted out from inside the deep hood. Or perhaps it had just been an errant draft that caused the candles to dance and hiss.

His tone was unaltered, but Lithiníel somehow sensed a darkness had entered his voice that had not been there before. Perhaps it was merely the echo of a world-weariness she couldn't begin to comprehend. A strange rush of pity came over her then, as she struggled to understand how he could have endured all those years, scarred, unimaginably changed from what he once had been.

_Pity?_ she thought. _Pity for the monster who served Morgoth, who sought to enslave Middle Earth? Pity for one who has the blood of countless Elves and Men on his hands?_ Then, _Yes, pity, even for all of that. For if I cannot find pity in my heart for such a one as he, am I any better?_

Something in his silence moved her to say, "That must be true, my lord, for otherwise how could you have come into my dream, when you say such a thing has never happened to you before?"

"Ah, that." His shoulders seemed to shift under their heavy draperies of black wool. "Tell me, Lithiníel, have you ever heard tell of a thing called a palantír?"

Lithiníel had read of the seeing-stones, but had never seen such a thing for herself; they were precious relics of Valinor, but none of them had been kept in Imladris. "I have, my lord," she replied.

"It was one of these I used, just before I entered your dream. Perhaps the stone has properties to allow one to see that which is beyond the world. I can think of no other explanation for what happened."

His theory seemed logical enough, although somehow she thought there was more to it than that, even if she could not say exactly what that might be. Not sure how to reply, she merely nodded, and remained silent.

He was quiet as well, then said, "It seems I have solved our little mystery. You may return to your chamber."

Was that a hint of disappointment she heard in his voice? Until now Lithiníel had never thought of how many keys to comprehension lay in being able to see another person's face, to read the emotions revealed therein. Here she had only his words and his tone, and since she did not know him, it was difficult for her to guess how much of himself he revealed in such things.

"If you wish it, my lord," she replied.

Sauron turned toward her ever so slightly. "Is that not what you wish? To flee my company and return to your haven?"

For some strange reason, that escape didn't seem quite as enticing as it might once have. Speaking quickly, lest she lose her nerve, Lithiníel said, "Only if you wish for me to leave."

Again one of those unnerving silences. He broke it by saying, "I have deprived you of enough sleep. Go now -- we will speak again tomorrow."

With that he moved away from her, mounting once again the stairs of the dais so that he could seat himself back down on his throne. Lithiníel bowed her head, and made her own way to the throne room's exit. When she opened the door, she saw Sarna standing there in the corridor outside, although she couldn't know whether the girl had been waiting all that time, or whether she had somehow been summoned once the interview ended.

Lithiníel knew she should have been glad of the reprieve. Instead, she wished she could have thought of the right thing to say, so that the Dark Lord would have wanted her to remain with him.

And that, she thought, as Sarna let her into her chamber once more and then closed the door behind her, proved that she must be going mad. For who but a madwoman would actually want to spend time in the company of the lord of Mordor?


	4. Four

Hi, everyone. I had hoped to get this posted earlier in the week, but RL's been a big ol' beyotch lately, so...better late than never, I guess. Thanks to everyone for the reviews (especially since I know this story is, dare I say it? a little bit crack).

* * *

Four

The room was silent once more. Sauron sat on his throne, watching as the candle flames flickered and danced in unseen drafts. He had lit far more than he normally would, thinking that perhaps Lithiníel would find herself more comfortable in a chamber better illuminated than most in Barad Dûr. For himself, he had little need of such things. And now that she was gone --

He lifted a gloved hand, and the pillars in the sconces that lined the walls shuddered and went out. So too did the tapers in the candelabrum to his right. The one on his left he allowed to stay lit, but only the candle in the center; the rest quietly snuffed themselves out as well.

That was better. Normally he would not have shown a visitor such courtesy, but for some reason he had found himself moved to grant Lithiníel a solicitude heretofore quite unknown to him. Perhaps it was merely that he had been able to interact with her in a manner that had been denied him for countless long, weary years. Never mind that it had only been a dream or vision. At least he had been able to stand next to her and feel the wind on his face, the delicate shape of her wrist between his encircling fingers. Once he would have said he scorned such things. Only now, after unnamed ages of isolation in this cursed form, had he begun to realize he'd lost much more than his precious Ring that dark day at the siege of Barad Dûr.

His keen eyes caught a sudden rustle of black against black as his servant and mouthpiece came forth out of the shadows. "If this one may be permitted to address your Majesty?"

Suppressing a flicker of annoyance at having his solitude disrupted in such a manner, Sauron replied, "Speak."

The man knelt at the foot of the dais, forehead touching the cold marble floor in the ancient gesture of obeisance. After he had paid his proper respects, he lifted his head but still kept his eyes averted. "Forgive my boldness, your Majesty, but the presence of this Elf-maid troubles me."

"Troubles you?" The Dark Lord shifted on his throne, gloved hands clenched on the carved armrests. "Explain yourself."

His Mouth -- for that was how Sauron thought of the man, whose name had been forgotten years ago -- fixed his gaze somewhere in the region of the Dark Lord's booted feet. "Perhaps this one should say that he does not quite understand his master's motivations for keeping one of the enemy so close at hand."

Boldness, indeed. But the afterglow of that strange interlude beyond the borders of this world still clung to him, and because of it Sauron's reply was perhaps gentler than it might otherwise have been. "Enemy? Her people count themselves my adversaries, I have no doubt. But I believe if you went to her and inquired as to whether she thought of herself as my enemy, her answer would surprise you."

Certainly many things about Lithiníel had startled him. He might be flattering himself, but he thought he had noted the slightest hesitation in her reply when he dismissed her, almost as if she had been reluctant to leave him. Had he ever seen such a reaction in anyone else? _Only those who knew that once they left my presence they would immediately be conducted to the torture chambers_, he thought, with a touch of wryness quite unlike him.

"Of course your Majesty's keen eyes would perceive that which this humble one might overlook," the Mouth said.

The man still stared resolutely down at the hem of the Dark Lord's robes. Sauron wondered what sort of reaction his servant would have if he were ever to witness the true horror of his master's face.

"You have the truth of it, my servant," he said, feeling his mouth twist in a smirk within the shadows of his hood. "Your concern is laudable, but unfounded. Certainly you cannot think that one simple _elleth_ presents any threat to the might of Barad Dûr?"

At once the Mouth's head touched the marble floor. If he had moved any more quickly, he might have risked slamming his forehead against the unyielding surface. At the sight, Sauron fought a most unseemly impulse to laugh. Where in Middle Earth had that ridiculous custom come from?

"A threat?" the man echoed. "Your Majesty jests with this one, as is your right. If this one may be permitted to speak plainly -- "

"This one may," Sauron replied, beginning to tire of the game. He'd had the sudden thought that perhaps he could return to the palantír's chamber and see if somehow he could force its powers to his will, somehow compel it to send him back to the netherworld which held that distant shore. With any luck, perhaps he could meet her walking there again...

"She is a distraction, your Highness," the Mouth said, the words coming quickly, as if he feared that his nerve might fail him before he could speak his piece. Sauron somehow doubted that; humble speech and theatrical obeisances aside, the man was ruthless, and had clawed his way through Black Númenorean society to take the position he now held. As it should be; the Dark Lord would accept no less from one who served as the citadel's steward.

"A distraction?" Sauron repeated, his tone silky.

A fall of dark hair hid the man's face, obscuring his expression, but his tone sounded firm. "Your Highness, should not your entire will be bent upon the recovery of your lost treasure? What purpose does it serve to dally with this Elf-maid, this one who can do nothing to assist in your quest? Perhaps she offers some small diversion, but would not your purpose be better served if she were to be sent to the dungeons immediately?"

Logical questions all, but the Dark Lord still felt an irrational surge of anger. Who was this man to question the lord of Mordor's judgment? Did the Mouth not exist to serve his master's will? And if that will called for this Elf-maid to live, who was he to question it? Long had Sauron sought his lost Ring, and so far it had proved elusive. He knew it still existed, or he and all his works would have been unmade, but he felt no closer now to regaining it than he had been in the dark years when he had hid, formless and lost, before regaining enough power to establish himself at Dol Guldur. If it amused him to play the beneficent host to one errant Elf-maid, what of it? Surely his resources were not so depleted that he could not follow both pursuits at once?

"You forget yourself, my servant," Sauron said at length, not bothering to hide the angry rasp of his voice. Although the Mouth's face was still obscured, the Dark Lord saw the stiffening of the man's shoulders, and felt some satisfaction. "It is not your place to question my motivations or decisions. I will not warn you again."

"The Dark Lord is merciful," the man gasped, and flattened himself against the floor's black stone surface once more.

"As to that, we shall see. Withdraw -- I weary of your presence."

Immediately the Mouth scuttled away, not rising to his feet until he had reached what he seemed to consider a safe distance from his master. Then he bowed from the waist and finished backing the rest of the way out of the throne room.

_Fool_, Sauron thought, but although he had dismissed the man's arguments, he still felt a strange restlessness. Why had he allowed Lithiníel to live, after all? Was it merely that he thought it the best way to torment her, she who had sought to end her life? Or was there more to it than that?

He found he did not wish to answer that question. Instead, he rose from his seat and swept out of the throne room. Perhaps a visit with the palantír would help to settle his mind.

* * *

Lithiníel had not meant to sleep, even though the hour was late. It seemed as if she had spent most of the past few days lost in slumber, natural or otherwise. But there was little enough to occupy her in the gilded cage Sauron had provided her with -- no books, no writing materials, not even a window with the sort of view that might offer her a small measure of peace. She longed then for the harp of silvered beech she had left behind in Imladris; although she could not in any honesty count herself as a great musician, playing the pretty little instrument had offered her solace in the past and surely would have helped her to pass the idle hours here in Barad Dûr. 

But weariness pulled at her, even though she had forced herself to sit before the fire and guard it to make sure it didn't burn too low. Of course, Sarna had expertly banked the coals before she retired to her narrow pallet outside the door. There was no need for Lithiníel to pull the velvet-upholstered chair close, poker dangling idly from her hand. The dimly pulsating glow from the coals seemed almost hypnotic, and once or twice she felt her eyelids begin to drop as she stared into the fire's orange-red depths. She startled, and pushed herself upright against the seat back, fighting the weariness even as it threatened to engulf her.

At some point, however, Lithiníel fell into darkness, sinking into slumber like a stone dropped into a deep, deep pool. The poker slipped, unheeded, from her strengthless fingers. And then once again she was someplace else.

It was not the lost seashore she had trod so recently. Instead, fields of dazzling green met her eyes, and a sky of achingly pure blue. Off to her left, Lithiníel saw a range of mountains so high and lofty that she thought surely they could never be scaled by either Men or Elves. The air smelled sweet and fresh, touched by the perfumes of flowers she had never known.

"What is this place?" she wondered aloud.

"It is the Blessed Realm," came the answer, and she turned to see the fair lord of her earlier dream standing a few paces off.

Only now she understood that he was no Elf-lord, but Sauron in his Maiar guise. She knew she could not trust him, however beautiful he might appear to her.

"And how is it that you could come here?" she replied boldly. "Forgive me, my lord, but I misdoubt the Valar would permit you entry to Valinor."

He appeared to take no offense, instead handing her a grin which bordered on impudence. "Let us then call it a dream of Valinor, a vision, if you please. I fear you are quite correct in saying that I would be most unwelcome in the Blessed Realm."

His reply did little to calm her. Most of her people would have been honored to find their way to Valinor in their dreams, but Lithiníel felt a strange unease in her heart. Instead, she asked, "And am I to have no peace in my slumber? Can I expect to see you every time I close my eyes?"

"As to that -- " Sauron shrugged. In the bright daylight, the silver-gray of his eyes was almost blinding. "I will admit that I did seek you out. I desired to learn whether or not our earlier meeting was a chance happenstance, or whether I could enter your dreams at will."

"I trust your question has now been answered," Lithiníel replied tartly, and turned from him, walking toward a stream she had spied a few hundred paces away. Perhaps the realization that this was only a dream had given her a courage she would not have known in the waking world.

Of course he would not be shaken off so easily, and followed along after her, for all the world like one of the puppies born to Lord Elrond's hunting hounds. The fresh breeze blew his dark hair back from his face, and he held his head high, as if he were enjoying the sun and the wind.

Lithiníel wished she could feel the same; in other circumstances, even a dream of blue sky and fresh growing things would have comforted, held as she was in Mordor's darkness. But how could she be easy of heart, with the Dark Lord dogging her every footstep? What in all of Middle Earth and beyond did he want from her?

The stream was probably a few ells wide, flowing quickly, no doubt fed by snowmelt from the mountains she had seen off in the distance. The sun hung almost directly overhead, so she could not tell whether they were located to the west or east of her; she supposed it didn't matter overmuch. Sunlight danced off the water's surface, and the rounded stones which formed the stream bed were clearly visible through its lucent depths. It was shallow enough that she could have forded it, but instead Lithiníel stopped at its bank and turned to face Sauron.

"Do you tire of ruling Mordor, my lord?" she inquired, crossing her arms under her breasts. In her dream she still wore the plain sleeveless shift of dark linen that she had donned in preparation for bed. "For I must confess that otherwise I cannot understand why you would waste your time in these flights of fancy."

For a second a frown creased that perfect brow, and then he gave her another one of his sidelong smiles. "No, I suppose you would not understand. In answer to your question, however, the land of Mordor need not fear its ruler's indifference."

"Then why?"

Again he smiled. "Why not?"

Perhaps he merely meant to torture her by slowly driving her mad. "Should I understand that before now you have not been able to walk here in dreams?"

"No, I have not." The silver-bright gaze slid away from hers. "Truthfully, I had never desired to."

Of course not. Hadn't Sauron refused to return to the Blessed Lands following his master's defeat at the end of the First Age? Surely Valinor was the last place the Dark Lord would seek out in his dreams. But somehow he had come here, following her trail.

"But now?" she persisted. "Do not tell me that the lord of Mordor has finally repented of the evil he has done?"

"Evil?" he repeated. Then he shrugged. "Some would call it such."

"Some?" Lithiníel stared at him, not sure she had heard correctly. "Forgive me, my lord, but what else can you call the subjugation of entire races, the wholesale slaughter and destruction that have ever followed in your wake?"

For the first time, a flash of true anger seemed to cross his face. Lithiníel forced herself to hold her ground, even though she wanted nothing more than to step back a few paces, or even flee altogether. Incongruously, she realized that here, as in her other dream, she was unshod, the grass soft and fresh against her bare feet.

"Do you task me, little _elleth_?" he inquired, his words belying the softness of his tone. "Who are you to demand an explanation from me?"

"One whose people have been cruelly persecuted throughout the ages," she replied. "What other reason need I?"

As before, the Dark Lord wore a long tunic of silvery-grey silk. She saw his hand clench against its folds, creasing the delicate fabric. "Do not forget, Lithiníel, that you live or die upon my pleasure."

"How can I forget it, when you hound me even in my dreams? But it seems you forget, my lord, that I came to be your prisoner through my own heedless pursuit of death. Do not think that it holds any terrors for me." Even as she said the words, however, Lithiníel knew she had not been entirely truthful. Despite the terror and despair of her current situation, she realized that she did very much want to live.

The oddly metallic eyes, ringed with black lashes, seemed to bore into hers. "So you would leave this life gladly, with no regrets? Do you not fear the judgment that will be passed upon you in the Halls of Mandos?"

"I did not say I would have no regrets," she replied, lifting her chin. "And although I may have to spend some time in atonement for the follies of my actions, I know that I would not have to tarry overlong in the halls of judgment before coming here at last to Valinor." His expression did not change as she made this assertion, so she added, "And what of you, my lord? Surely you are the one who should fear the judgment he must face at the end."

At her words he laughed unexpectedly. Once again Lithiníel forced herself to remain where she was, although the mocking edge to that laughter frightened her even more than his frowns. "You display your ignorance, young _elleth_. I cannot be cast out of this world so easily; I need not fear a doom which will never come upon me."

"Brave words," she returned. "But even your great master eventually met his fate. Do you call yourself more powerful than he?"

Even as she said the words, Lithiníel wished she could take them back. Now Sauron looked truly angry, the beauty of his features twisted by dark emotion. But even if she had gone too far, she knew she could not retreat. _Besides_, she thought, _what can he truly do to me here, in a place where neither one of us truly exists?_

Belatedly she realized that perhaps it wasn't what he could do here in the dream world, but what he might do once they both awakened back in Middle Earth.

"I do not need to be more powerful than my former master," he said, the rich baritone of his voice undercut by rage, "seeing as my foes in this age are Men sadly dwindled from the might of their forebears, and a scattering of Elves who hide in the woods and run for their precious Havens when they think I am not looking. What care I? Let them go, I say -- they matter little to me."

Goaded, Lithiníel retorted, "If that is truly how you feel, then once again I must ask, my lord, why you trouble yourself with me. To you I must be only a speck of dust on your boot, a fly that could easily be swatted."

"Less," he said immediately. "You are only a passing amusement, a diversion I find begins to lose its capacity to entertain me."

"Then get out of my dream and make an end to it!" And at last she knew she had gone too far.

Making an inarticulate sound of rage, he reached out to grasp her by the shoulders. His hands were hot and cruel, pressing with agonizing strength into the bare flesh. Lithiníel gasped, her teeth catching her lower lip. _But I must not let him see that he hurts me_, she thought, and she once again stood her ground, even though she knew she could not force her will against his indefinitely, even though tears of agony threatened to fill her eyes.

Just as suddenly as he had seized her, Sauron released his hold and stepped back a pace. His breath, too, sounded ragged, but Lithiníel thought that had to be because he had not yet spent his fury.

He looked down at his hands -- hands which were both whole and perfect, Lithiníel realized -- and then stared back at her. "No one has challenged me in more than an age of Men," he said at last.

"Then perhaps it is time someone did," she answered.

A look of baffled anger passed over his features. "Why do you not fear me?" he asked. "If you do not fear death, surely you must still fear pain?"

_As would any rational creature_, she reflected, but Lithiníel said only, "Is that what you wish? For me to grovel before you like one of your slaves? If that is your desire, my lord, you may be waiting yet another age of Men for it to be fulfilled." _Now he will strike me down for my impudence_, she thought. _And perhaps I will wake to find that he truly means to make an end of things._

For a long moment Sauron said nothing. "No," he said finally, his tone musing. "I have enough of slaves, I believe."

It was impossible to deny the relief that flowed through her at his words, but Lithiníel remained wary. After all, this could be merely another attempt to deceive her. Voice neutral, she asked, "And what am I, then?"

Again he was silent. He stepped closer to her, and Lithiníel forced herself to stand still, even though her arms ached and every instinct told her to turn and flee. Then he reached out and took her right hand in his, bending low over it and bringing it to his forehead in the ancient gesture of hospitality. "You are my honored guest, Lithiníel of Imladris," he said formally. Afterward he released her hand and straightened.

Not knowing what else to do, she gave the traditional reply, "And you honor me with your hospitality, Sauron of Mordor."

He laughed then, the last traces of anger leaving his face. "As to that, I will do my best. Do you forgive me?"

When he looked at her in such a way, mouth curved in amusement, the sun glinting from his shining dark hair, it was almost possible to forget the way he had grasped her in anger, the mocking condescension of his words. In the past when she had read tales of how the Dark Lord had seduced the Men of Númenor with his sweet words and winning ways, Lithiníel had been unable to comprehend how anyone could be deceived, knowing as they did that Sauron had once been a follower of Morgoth. But now, as she gazed on him, she began to understand why those Men of long ago had been fooled.

Still, even if his current good humor was no more than a convenient lie, she did not think it wise to provoke him a second time. "I forgive you," she said, giving him a smile of her own. To her surprise, the words had almost the ring of truth.

He nodded. "Then sleep, sweet Lithiníel, and dream of our next meeting."

Once again the darkness rose up around her, but this time she did not fall into the blackness so much as feel it surround her like a warm blanket on a cold night. The blissful day of Valinor disappeared...and finally too did the smiling visage of the lord of Mordor.

* * *

_Stupid Elf-bitch_, thought the Mouth of Sauron, who had made a quick retreat to his quarters after being dismissed by the Dark Lord. Once he was safe in his own chambers, he at last felt free to give rein to his anger. 

Off came one mailed gauntlet, then another. They slid across the surface of the table where he had tossed them and then clanked against the stone floor. He did not bother to retrieve them; one of the slaves would gather them up at some point.

A flagon of the dark, sweet wine of Near Harad stood on the sideboard, and he poured a good measure into the goblet which also rested there. He drank, two quick gulps, then set the goblet back down. It was just enough to calm his flayed nerves, but not so much that his abilities would be impaired.

No living being had ever borne witness to his occasional displays of temper; he made sure to keep such outbursts to himself. This time, however, he'd had a difficult time of maintaining his calm all the way back to the suite he called his own.

_What game does the Dark Lord play?_ he wondered. _Surely he would not be so adamant if this she-Elf were simply a novel means of amusement._

But he wondered. During his master's conversation with the Elf-maid, the Mouth had lingered in the shadows toward the rear of the Dark Lord's throne room. If Sauron had noted his presence, it would not have been thought unusual; the lord of Mordor's servant was required to stay in the chamber against his master's need. It had become quite obvious, however, that the Dark Lord required no intermediary for him to carry on a conversation with the she-Elf he held captive.

_She is useless_, he thought, _far too young to have been in Elrond's or any of the rest of that accursed tribe's councils. It is clear that she has no information to divulge, nothing that would further the cause of Mordor. And yet the Dark Lord allows her to live, even allows her to speak with him directly, and with a notable lack of respect._

Surely if any of Sauron's servants had had the sheer foolishness to address him as the she-Elf did, he would have killed them on the spot. What was it about her that made him display a leniency heretofore unknown to him?

If it had been someone else, the Mouth would have thought perhaps it was simply because she was female, and beautiful. But such things were as beneath the Dark Lord's notice as the rats which dwelled in the lower cellars of his tower. Females had their uses -- the Mouth had always availed himself of the more attractive kitchen slaves when the need drove him -- but of course Sauron could not possibly be thinking of her in that way.

Whatever the reason, she was a threat. Although the Dark Lord had admonished his servant that the temporary distraction of this one Elf-maid would not turn him from his quest, the Mouth wondered. Even with all his will bent upon finding his lost Ring, Sauron had not yet been able to recover it. If part of his energies were diverted by this trifling little Elf-bitch, who knew how long it would take before the full might of Mordor was restored?

Now were the darkest watches of the night, the time when Sauron's mouthpiece usually allowed himself a few stolen hours of sleep. He went to his bed, but not to sleep. A silent summons brought his favorite girl to him, and he spent his rage and frustration in her body, until he sent her away once again so he could think.

Lying there in the darkness, he began to ponder the best way to rid the Dark Lord of this troublesome she-Elf. It would have to be done subtly, in such a way that his master would never know of his servant's involvement. From what he had seen, the _elleth_ was high-spirited and bold, not one to cow easily. No doubt he could find some way to use those traits against her. Yes, it would be most satisfying to watch her fall into his trap, never knowing from whence it had been sprung.

He smiled. Once she was gone, the Dark Lord's attention would be undivided once again. Then he would regain his treasure -- and no doubt he would find new ways to reward the faithful servant who had assisted him.

Yes, everything would be much better once Lithiníel was dead.


	5. Five

Well, better late than never, I suppose. I will not dump on you, dear readers, the ration of (expletive deleted) I've had to go through the past few days, but at least today I had some quiet time to get back to this story. Thank you to everyone for your wonderful reviews!

* * *

Five

It felt odd to rise the next morning, to take her bath and eat the simple food Sarna had brought. As she moved the soap over her bare arms, Lithiníel inspected each one carefully, thinking that surely the Dark Lord must have left some mark on her flesh, but the skin was still pale and perfect, unblemished by any bruise or scratch. How could something feel so real and yet leave no physical evidence behind?

She sensed he sought to atone for that moment of unchecked fury; she had awoken to find Sarna entering the room with several more slaves in tow, all of them carrying new gowns and other items for her comfort -- pen and parchment if she desired to write, a small chest filled with jewelry, and, most unbelievably, a small lap harp of carved black oak.

_How could he have known?_ she thought, as she ran a finger across the strings and listened to the delicate _glissando_ that filled the room. Its tone was richer and darker than the harp she had left behind in Imladris; she supposed that was only to be expected.

Still, even though its origins might be suspect, she found herself glad that now she at least had some means to occupy herself during the long, empty hours. After she had finished with her bath, and Sarna had combed out her hair and then left to oversee the removal of the tub, Lithiníel took the harp over to the tall chair next to the window and sat there for a moment, her fingers bringing forth idle melodies from the silver strings.

To let more light into the room, Lithiníel had pulled the curtains aside and fastened them out of the way with a silken rope apparently meant for that purpose. The view which met her gaze was bleak and forbidding, even in full daylight...or what passed for it in Mordor. The sun was doing its best to push past the heavy dun-gray clouds, but Lithiníel wondered if it had ever been entirely successful.

_But somewhere there have to be green, growing things_, she reflected. _For I had a most excellent apple with my breakfast, and the wheat with which they made the bread had to have come from someplace as well. Or does the lord of Mordor simply import everything his country cannot produce?_

A knock sounded at the door, and Lithiníel called out, "Come in," thinking that it must be Sarna returning to see if anything further was required.

Instead, the black, hooded shape of the Dark Lord filled the doorway. He advanced a few steps into the chamber, then said, "I am not disturbing you?"

_Of course you are_, she thought. _You disturb me merely by being here_. But she knew that was not what he had meant. "No, my lord," she replied. "You find me enjoying your most thoughtful gift." But she found it strange and somewhat discourteous to remain seated in his presence, and so she laid the harp aside and stood.

"And have you looked at none of the others?" he inquired, pausing by the table, which held the unopened casket of jewels.

Indeed, she hadn't, save to ascertain that the little chest held far more items of jewelry than she could ever require. Flushing slightly, she moved closer to him, then said, "They are lovely, I am sure."

A leather-clad hand moved to undo the clasp on the casket. Sauron reached inside, and drew out a necklace of grass-green emeralds set in silver. "These are a color I believe you yearn for."

And indeed the sight of the stones, their fresh hue in those surroundings of black and red and gold, made her heart contract with longing for the meadows and glades which had surrounded Imladris. Despite herself, she stepped closer, one hand reaching out as if to take the necklace from him.

But he stepped away in one smooth movement, somehow coming to stand behind her. "If I may," he said, and dropped the jewels over her head. She could feel the gloved fingers brush the bare skin at the back of her neck as he pushed her hair out of the way in order to secure the clasp.

Lithiníel could not help but shiver slightly at his touch, although she forced herself to remain where she was and not back away. Then he was done, and immediately moved away from her once again.

The jewels felt heavy and strange around her throat. She touched the center gem with her forefinger, the smooth oval of the cabochon cool against her skin.

"It suits you," the Dark Lord said.

For some reason his words brought a flush to her cheeks, and she immediately dropped her hand. "As to that, my lord, I will have to trust your judgment," she replied. "There are no mirrors in this chamber for me to see for myself."

"No, there are not." The cowled hood lifted slightly. "You will find none in Barad Dûr."

_Of course_, she thought. _No doubt the lord of Mordor would not wish to see the alteration in his form..._

A silence grew between them, and Lithiníel knew she must fill it somehow. "It is a rare gift, my lord. Certainly this is not a hospitality I would have expected of Mordor."

Even as she said the words, she wondered if her remark would offend him. It had not been meant that way, but --

Her fears proved unfounded, however, as Sauron let out a low chuckle. "You speak no more than the truth, Lithiníel. Mordor's hospitality usually consists of an extended stay in the dungeons."

Was he actually teasing her? She managed an uncertain laugh of her own at his comment, and replied, "Then I will endeavor to retain my favored status, my lord."

For a few seconds he said nothing, but only seemed to stare down at her. Again, it was impossible for Lithiníel to know what he might be thinking. But as much as she would have liked to have seen the expression on his face, she feared what horrors the deep, shadowed hood might conceal.

Then he said at last, "I do not think you will find that overly difficult."

His words should have reassured her. Somehow, though, she felt that strange creeping sense of disquiet once again, as if there were a subtext to his words which she had somehow missed. He had told her in her dream -- vision? -- of the night before that she was his honored guest, and certainly he had done nothing so far to make her think differently. Why did she have the sudden feeling that she had overlooked something of vital importance?

He seemed to be waiting for an answer, so she said, "I hope so, my lord."

Again another one of those disturbing silences. Then she caught what looked like a sudden lift of the broad shoulders under the enveloping robes. "I will take my leave of you now. I only wished to see how you fared, and whether you were pleased with your gifts."

"Very pleased," Lithiníel hastened to say. "I thank you for your solicitude, my lord."

"It is nothing," he said shortly. And with that he turned and strode out of the chamber, leaving Lithiníel to stare after after his departing form and wonder if she had, after all, said something to upset him.

_And what if I had?_ she thought, as the door shut behind him, and she was once more left alone with her thoughts. _He swore to treat me as an honored guest. But perhaps the Dark Lord's oaths mean little, after all._

Still, she wondered if she should have been more effusive in her thanks. For indeed the gift of the harp meant a great deal to her -- the jewels were lovely, after all, but in giving her the instrument, Sauron had seemed to show that he did view her as an individual with wants and needs, and not merely a prisoner...or an ornamental diversion.

Perhaps that was giving him too much credit for thoughtfulness, though. After all, she couldn't forget how he had seized her in their shared dream, how she was sure even this morning that her arms would bear the marks of his rage. As if in response to that memory, however, she recalled the delicate brush of his gloved fingers against her skin as he fastened the necklace around her throat. The contact had been so quick she could barely feel it, but somehow the recollection made her shiver once again. Strangely, though, it was not a shiver of disgust, but something else...anticipation? Need? Had she somehow wanted him to touch her?

But that thought led her mind into pathways she did not want to explore. Shaking her head, Lithiníel returned to her neglected harp and forced herself to concentrate on a half-remembered melody, to coax the strains of a song she hadn't played in many years from the silver strings...anything to avoid the idea that her mind and body had somehow betrayed her.

* * *

He wanted her, Sauron realized, as he returned to his chambers. Not as a prisoner, not as an unexpected amusement, but for herself. 

This thought was so novel that he almost stopped short in the corridor outside his suite to consider it. After a hesitation so brief it could hardly be noted, he continued on to his rooms and swept inside, ignoring his Mouth, who waited at the entry along with hand-picked guard of Easterlings and Haradrim. No doubt the sentries were superfluous -- no one could possibly be foolish enough to attempt an assault on the Dark Lord within his own citadel -- but the forms must be followed, after all.

Once inside, he proceeded to the circular tower room that fronted the suite, a chamber inside which he had spent many hours surveying his kingdom and brooding over the loss of his Ring. Now, however, he found his thoughts drawn to the young _elleth_ he had just left, and not to his missing treasure.

It was a weakness, he decided, and a most unexpected one at that. Certainly in the past he had avoided any such entanglements. It was not unknown for one of his kind to form an attachment with one of the Eldar -- Melian had thrown in her lot with Thingol, the weak fool -- but he had always considered himself far above such folly. Desire he had known, of course, the need to possess and control and dominate, but that desire had never extended to another living being.

_Certainly she is fair_, he thought, _but nothing to one of the Maiar, or even Melian's cursed daughter. No, it is not that. But what, then?_

The answer eluded him, and he stared out at the towers of his citadel and the slag heaps that surrounded Barad Dûr with eyes which suddenly seemed not his own. Somehow the barren landscape had twisted and distorted beneath his gaze, transforming itself into something immeasurably ugly and vile. Had it always been thus? Had he only just now realized how hideous his kingdom was?

_More folly_, he told himself. _You see it as she does, not as it suits you. This land serves, and supports a mighty host. What care you if Mordor is beautiful or not?_

He knew he should not care. The heaps of ash and slag he saw now were simply the by-products of his armories, and necessary. If they offended Lithiníel's Elvish sensibilities, that was her concern, and hers alone.

Fine words, and he almost believed them. But Sauron began to comprehend why his surroundings disturbed him so, even though he had looked upon them countless thousands of times in the past. No, it was more than that. For if the ugliness of his kingdom disturbed her -- and he knew it had; he had seen the dismay in her eyes as she looked out the window at the wasteland that was Mordor -- then how much more would she be distressed by his distorted face and form? Once, perhaps, he could have approached Lithiníel as he had approached that nameless woman so long ago in Númenor, the one who sold her body for men's pleasure. But now --

_Now you are so hideous that an orc might be considered comely in comparison_, he thought. _Not even the plainest woman in Gondor would consider having you, let alone a fair daughter of the Noldor._

He could force her, he knew, even though such a violation would surely lead to her death. But somehow he, despoiler of Númenor, corrupter of ancient kings, could not find it within him to do that. He and Lithiníel had shared the sacred vow of hospitality, and he would abide by it. Besides, he began to understand that he valued her because she had faced him without fear, without the mindless subservience he had become to expect as his due. As he had told her the evening before, he had enough of slaves. He could not hope for an equal, but perhaps he could at least have a companion.

In his mind he saw her as she had stood before him just a short time ago, in the pale gray gown he had commissioned for her, with the emeralds glowing like green fire against her white skin. He had not been able to feel that skin through his gloves, but he knew she had sensed his touch; a little _frisson_ had moved through her as he fastened the jewels around her neck. But she had not backed away, or attempted to stop him. The memory encouraged him somewhat.

She feared him less in dreams, of course -- there he still wore his fair Maiar aspect. Perhaps in time...

He let the thought trail off, and a sudden realization caught him. Here and now, he could only inspire horror, but there, in that world beyond this, he could face her, touch her, without fearing her revulsion. And indeed, it would be diverting to see how he might draw her in, make her want him as he wanted her. Such a thing would go against all her instincts, which of course made him want her all the more.

It was far too early to enter the world of dreams; somewhere beyond the smoke and gloom that perpetually shrouded his kingdom, the sun had not yet reached its zenith. He had thought to dine with her again, but now he decided against it. Better to leave her to her solitude, make her wonder if she had somehow affronted him, make her uncertain and afraid. Certainly that would increase her relief once she saw him in her dreams again.

In the meantime, he had matters of some importance to attend to. He had endured an unending procession of days in his long life...surely one more could not make that much of a difference.

* * *

Her midday meal and the one that followed some hours later were both brought to her on a tray; on this day, Lithiníel had received no summons to dine with the Dark Lord, and the enforced solitude began to prey upon her. Perhaps she really had offended him through lack of praise for his gifts. She had been most sincere in her thanks, but it was quite possible that Sauron expected more than she had given. 

_It is not in me, to grovel and play the sycophant_, she thought, pushing her half-eaten dinner away and going to once again take up her harp. _If the Dark Lord requires a spineless toady, he will have to look elsewhere._

But of course his absence could mean something entirely different. Surely she was not so self-involved as to think he could spend unlimited amounts of time in her company. He ruled a kingdom, and controlled vast territories beyond Mordor's borders. Certainly he had claims on his time she could not begin to comprehend.

Still, it was with some relief that Lithiníel finally laid the harp aside and climbed wearily into bed; really, it had begun to seem that a day of enforced idleness was far more tiring than one spent in more physical pursuits. As she laid her head down on the pillow, she wondered if she would see the Dark Lord again...and then found herself troubled by the realization that she looked forward to such a meeting.

This time she fell into slumber gradually, and for a while was lost in oblivion. Perhaps hours or minutes or merely seconds passed; she could not know for sure, only that the black mists of sleep slowly ebbed away, leaving her in yet another place she did not recognize, a round tower room of dark stone, with equally dark hangings covering the walls. Immediately in front of her was an arched opening that led out onto a balcony. She walked in that direction, though she could see little of the landscape beyond the tower. There, too, it was black night, although the stars in their familiar constellations glittered clear and cold as diamonds. Sharp as well was the wind that caught at her loose hair and touched her face, but at least in this dream she was warmly clad in the black velvet gown Sauron had given her, with a heavy woolen mantle providing additional protection against the bleak night.

One of the shadows moved toward her, and then she saw Sauron's face clearly in the chill starlight. Like her, he wore a dark mantle to ward off the cold night air, and beneath that outer garment he was clad in a black wool tunic similar in cut to garments worn by the Men of Gondor.

Lithiníel had to struggle to keep a smile from her lips. Instead she asked, "And so where are we now?"

"In my own chambers, here at Barad Dûr."

For some reason that reply disturbed her a little, but she only said, "So we have not traveled nearly so far this time. Truly, I did not think one could see the stars so clearly in your kingdom, my lord."

"In dreams, many things are possible," he replied, smiling at her. "I will confess that their presence surprised me somewhat, but even I am not sure I can control all things in this otherworld we have found."

She thought on that for a moment, then inquired, "And so I am here because you ordered it so?"

"That is a harsh word. Say rather that this time I wished to see if I could choose the place of our meeting."

For a moment Lithiníel remained silent, thinking on his words and all their possible meanings. A particularly sharp gust of wind blew across the balcony where they stood, and she shivered.

"But you are cold out here," Sauron said. "Let us go inside, where it is warmer."

Somehow she was not sure whether that was wise, but she could not think of a way to protest without sounding rude. So she followed him inside, and watched as he drew a thick leather curtain across the opening, cutting off the searching wind and the cold, uncaring stars. Without seeing exactly how he did it -- for he used no flint or other means to draw forth the fire -- she watched as he illuminated several candles which stood on a table located against the wall opposite the balcony, and lit a brazier of oil that hung from the ceiling. Its warmth began to fill the chamber, enough so that Lithiníel began to shrug her way out of the heavy outer garment she wore.

"Allow me," said the Dark Lord, who came immediately to her side and relieved her of the mantle. Again, she could not see what he did with it, only that in one second he held the mass of black wool, and in the next it was gone.

Not knowing what else to do, she stood there awkwardly, watching him with some wariness. Now he seemed overly solicitous, and the shift in his mood only deepened her unease. Surely the lord of Mordor was not usually in the habit of worrying over another person's comfort. Or was he merely continuing to act the part of the generous host?

The dim candlelight did little to reveal his expression. She could only hope that it served equally to keep him from seeing the thoughts her own face might betray.

_If I even know what those thoughts are anymore_, she reflected. _I fell asleep thinking that I desired to see him again, and yet now that he is here, I find myself questioning his every motive._

As well she should, she supposed, considering that this was no Elf-lord who kept her company, but the most ancient enemy of her people...save one.

"You are very quiet," he said.

"Forgive me, my lord," Lithiníel replied. "I find that you give me much to think upon."

"Such as?"

She faced him squarely, and answered, "Why you should wish to see me each night, and why you should seem so concerned with my comfort. If I may speak the truth plainly, my lord, these do not seem to be the actions of the lord of Mordor."

A shadow seemed to cross his face. "So despite everything, you still mistrust me?"

"That is not what I said."

"But you are clearly disquieted in some way. What else could have caused such unease, other than a doubt of my motives?"

His voice held no real inflection, other than the slight lift that signaled a question. If she had angered him, he hid it well. Lithiníel shook her head, then said slowly, choosing her words with care, "I do not speak of a lack of trust, my lord. Rather, let us say that I am trying to reconcile everything I have ever heard or read of you with the one who faces me now."

"Histories that were written by my enemies," he replied, and even in the flickering candlelight she could see a gleam in his eyes, the wry quirk of his mouth. "I make no apologies to you, Lithiníel, for who I am, or what I have done, but even all that does not paint a true or complete portrait, I think."

Troubled, she glanced away from him, down at the tabletop next to her. She did not know whether this dream Barad Dûr in which they stood was a true representation of the one in the waking world; here, the table was scattered with maps and writing implements and pieces of parchment, looking very much the workspace of someone who spent long hours in the management of his kingdom. For some reason, that surprised her. Of course she knew Mordor was Sauron's realm, and that he must presumably do something with his time besides perpetually seeking his lost Ring. Even so, somehow viewing the evidence of his rule brought home to her the fact that he had become much more to her than the evil, faceless overlord of legend.

_How much more?_ she wondered, and frowned at the thought.

"I will give you the truth, Lithiníel of Imladris," Sauron said then, "although I am certain that is not something which is usually expected from me. Why do I wish to see you? Because, as I said, I have had enough of slaves. You can have no idea what it is after all these long years, to have someone who can look at you without cringing, who will speak her mind and be unafraid. I could say it is because you amuse me, but that would be a lie."

His words moved her unexpectedly, and she lifted her head to see him watching her with careful eyes. No, she could never understand the terrible isolation in which he had lived -- an isolation he had brought upon himself, she was forced to admit, but no less painful because of that.

"Then I will tell you the truth as well, my lord," she said. "I have come to question myself, for I find that I look forward to these meetings far more than I should."

He did not smile, but something in his face seemed to change, as if a certain tension found itself suddenly eased. "Again you surprise me," he murmured, and stepped closer to her. For a moment he only stared down into her face, and Lithiníel found she could do nothing but return his gaze. It was quiet here, in this tower beyond the world. In the stillness, she imagined she could almost hear the beating of his heart within his breast.

Then he bent toward her, one hand reaching up to push the hair back from her face even as his lips met hers. Stunned, she could only stand there, feeling the pressure of his mouth against her skin, the heat of his hand as it touched her cheek. And then it seemed as if that heat flooded through her, taking her breath, sending a pulsing wave of warmth through her body.

_I am mad_, she realized, but that was the last coherent thought left to her for some time. She could only press herself against him, feeling those hungry lips on hers, the strength of his arms as they went around her. The whole world seemed to spin, the very ground beneath her feet unstable as a bog. Once she had dreamed of what it would be like for Elladan to hold her so, but now, in Sauron's embrace, those girlish dreams evaporated like mist in sunlight.

At last, however, he released her. She gasped for air, still clutching his arms, for she had the feeling if she let go completely she might crumple to her knees. He said nothing, but only watched her with those unreadable silver-pale eyes of his.

Some last shred of sanity compelled her to say, "We cannot do this." And even those four words seemed to require all of the small store of strength she had remaining.

He replied, with a smile, "I would say we had already done this -- whatever you might mean by that."

She shook her head. "How is it possible? How could you want -- that is, I did not know that you -- "

"Were capable?" he finished, and smiled. "Did I not say to you earlier that in the world of dreams, many things are possible?"

Yes, he had, but Lithiníel had never imagined that he would take matters to this conclusion. Of all the lore surrounding the lord of Mordor, nothing had ever hinted that he even had an interest in such things.

"I did not think -- " she began, and he asked, with a slight lift of the brow,

"Are my advances unwelcome? You did not give that impression."

No, they were not -- and the realization troubled her that much more. Should she not have been repulsed, spurned him, attempted to flee this place? Instead, she had returned the kiss, clung to him, allowed him to hold her in a most familiar way -- all things that Lithiníel would have never believed herself capable of. Back in Imladris, if she had behaved in such a manner, the _ellon_ who had participated in such amorous activities most certainly would have made her a pledge of betrothal.

But of course she could expect no such thing from Sauron, even if she had desired it. Such a match would be unthinkable. Then again, a few moments earlier she would have said that sharing such a kiss with the Dark Lord would be equally absurd.

As if in answer to her continuing silence, he said, "This is but a dream, Lithiníel. Think on that, and let it comfort you."

"But are we not responsible for what we dream?" she inquired.

He lifted his shoulders. "To that, I would say dreams give us a freedom the waking world denies us."

Lithiníel wished his words could give her more comfort. What she had just done felt like a betrayal of her entire being, of her people -- and yet beneath the denial she could only feel another stab of desire as she looked up at him, at the curve of his mouth, the shadowy fall of dark hair. And his gaze seemed to catch hers once more, just as he reached for her, their mouths meeting again in yet another kiss that seemed to rock the world to its foundations.

When he released her at last, she reached out for the table, grasping the edge to keep from falling over. Her breath came in quick gasps, and her heart beat so quickly she feared it might batter its way out of her ribcage altogether.

"This can't be a dream," she whispered. "It feels too real."

Sauron bent over her again, but this time he only pressed his lips against her forehead. "Then let it be real."

From there she fell once more into darkness. She welcomed it this time, opening her arms to oblivion. Perhaps in the shadowed world beyond time, beyond dreams, she could forget that she had somehow fallen in love with the cursed lord of Mordor...


	6. Six

Thanks for all your reviews, everyone -- I really didn't know what sort of a reception this story was going to get, and I'm so pleased to see that you're enjoying it! What can I say...I have a thing for the bad guys. :-P

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Six

Lithiníel awoke, and laid one hand on her mouth, as if somehow Sauron's kiss might have left its imprint there. But the shape of her lips seemed unaltered, even though she could feel a sudden flood of heat wash across her face as she recalled how she had allowed him to embrace her, to take liberties she should never have allowed of anyone, save perhaps a betrothed.

_He told me it was only a dream, and that in dreams we are free to do as we choose_, she thought, _but even a dream of a kiss from the Dark Lord is a betrayal of all I am, of everything I thought I was._

She shut her eyes then, and placed her hands on top of them, as if by doing so she could somehow blot out the memory of her weakness. What did it matter that in her vision he had borne the face of his long-lost Maiar self, when within he must still be as black and twisted as the land he ruled?

_Elbereth, give me guidance_, she prayed. _Show me how to free myself from this prison, this sweet trap in which Sauron has ensnared me._

But she heard nothing, no whisper of a reply...nothing except the beating of her own heart, and the dismal realization that she was alone, and afraid. And along with all that, Lithiníel perceived a longing despite herself, a need to feel his arms around her once again, to hear his deep voice and its trace of archaic accent. It was as if her heart refused to hear what her mind was telling it, that the Dark Lord was an enemy to be mistrusted and denied, not a lover to be embraced.

"You cannot love him," she said aloud. "Everything else aside, he is not the sort to even comprehend such an emotion."

The sound of her own voice steadied her a little; it sounded cool and rather matter-of-fact, in stark contrast to the roiling emotions that troubled her so. She sat up in bed, regarding the darkly elegant apartment as if for the first time. Even though the quality of light that seeped past the heavy drapes told her morning had almost passed into afternoon, no one had come to disturb her. Usually by this time Sarna would have appeared with a tray of food.

Frowning slightly, Lithiníel pushed back the covers and slid out of bed, then went to the heavy wardrobe that held the garments Sauron had provided for her. One of these was a warm dressing gown made of red and black damask, and she pulled it on over her chemise, unsure as to whether her daily bath was going to make an appearance or not.

A pitcher of water that had been left for her the previous evening still sat on the table, and she poured some for herself, trying to concentrate on the simple action of drinking rather than the disturbing memories of the night before. She didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved that apparently Sauron had decided to neglect her for the time being. Perhaps he thought she had need of solitude, or perhaps he simply had more important demands on his time. She would not flatter herself by thinking that he considered the events of the preceding night to be of any real significance. Indeed, his actions might have been only a clever torment -- how better to subvert his captive than to engage her emotions and affections, only to spurn her later?

_That I will not believe_, she thought fiercely. _Oh, not because I do not think he is incapable of such a thing, but because I saw the expression on his face, heard the warmth in his voice. _Then she faltered a little, considering._ But he is not called the Father of Lies for nothing. How can I believe anything he says?_

She had little experience with falsehood. It was said that in the world of Men they would tell lies to better themselves, or to allow their women to believe one thing when they truly meant another. But that sort of duplicity was rare among the Eldar, and Lithiníel herself had never seen any evidence of it. Even Elladan had told her he could not care for her in that way and had taken himself off rather than hand her an untruth about their future together.

Would she even recognize a lie if Sauron gave her one?

Frowning, she poured herself more water and drank once again. Perhaps the Dark Lord hadn't exactly told her falsehoods...but she knew she was a fool if she thought he could care for her at all. He was incapable of such a thing. No doubt he took some pleasure from the feel of her flesh against his, as he must also enjoy the simple act of inhabiting an unscarred body, but it was quite a leap to go from such physical diversions to thinking he could even begin to reciprocate her feelings.

And upon what were those feelings based, anyhow? That she found him comely in his Maiar guise, that he had treated her with respect and as much kindness as he could muster instead of throwing her into Barad Dûr's dungeons? Was her heart such a fickle thing that it would succumb to such trifles?

Even as she berated herself, however, she could not help but recall how his mouth had felt against hers, the way the candlelight had wakened odd flickers of warmth in his shadow-dark hair. A thrill worked its way up her spine, and she clenched her fingers around the goblet she held, trying to force those treacherous sensations away.

Then a knock at the door pulled her from those troubling memories. She stood and went to answer it, knowing that it was probably Sarna...and hoping it would be the Dark Lord instead who waited for her there.

When Lithiníel opened the door, however, she found she looked upon a stranger, a tall Man in Mordor's dark livery, a Man whose height and coloring told her he must be of Númenorean blood. As she stared up at him in surprise, he bowed low and asked, "May I be permitted to enter?"

"Of course," she managed, after a brief hesitation, then stepped out of the way so that he might come inside.

His presence disturbed her; she had little experience with Men, although she had made the acquaintance of some of the Dunedain, Rangers who stopped in at Imladris from time to time to meet with Elrond or his sons before disappearing once more back out into the wild. Indeed, it was through conversing with them that she had become fluent in Westron. But she knew any Man in Mordor's service must be a Black Númenorean, one of that fallen branch of Westernesse who had worshipped Sauron for an age of Men and more. It troubled her even more that the person who faced her now could have been a brother to some of the Rangers she had known, with his dark hair and grey eyes, though there was a hardness about his mouth quite unknown to the Dunedain she had met.

"My lord Sauron sends his apologies, but he is much occupied today," the Man said, in perfect Quenya. "He does, however, wish to know how you fare. I am the steward of this citadel, known as the Mouth of Sauron, and speak for him in all things."

_Well, I am glad the Dark Lord uses his own mouth in some things_, Lithiníel reflected, _even though some might think this Man comely enough, for a mortal. That Sauron would send his servant to speak with me tells me that he is not concerned overmuch with what happened between us last night._

She raised her chin and said, "You may tell your master that I fare well enough, although it seems my morning meal is late in coming."

"As to that, the slave assigned to your care looked in on you earlier, and, seeing that you were still asleep, sought guidance as to what she should do." The Mouth gave Lithiníel a thin smile. "I deemed it best to allow you to sleep, and assured my master that I would look in on you myself."

Pleasant words, but something in the way this Man looked upon her made a chill creep its way up her spine. She pulled the dressing gown more closely about herself and replied, "I expect I was weary. I had much to occupy my mind." _There_, she thought. _Let him make of that what he might..._

But the Mouth's expression never changed. "It must be difficult, I would think," he said softly. "To be kept here, so far from your own kind."

Sympathy was perhaps the last thing she had expected from one of Sauron's servants, and Lithiníel felt again a twinge of unease. She said, choosing her words with care, "Your master has shown me a most unexpected hospitality. You will tell him that I am very grateful?"

The Man inclined his head ever so slightly. "But of course, my lady. I can see that you are determined to make the best of your situation." He smiled again, and Lithiníel began to wonder if perhaps she had done wrong to think ill of him. After all, he was Sauron's servant, and if the Dark Lord had sworn to make sure that she was kept safe, then why would this Man have any reason to wish otherwise?

"It is not as difficult as I would have thought," she admitted, allowing a hesitant smile of her own. "But now I must confess to some hunger."

"It will be seen to immediately, my lady," he said, and bowed once more. "I will attend to the matter now."

"Thank you," she replied, knowing that she could never address him directly by the title Sauron had given him. "You are most kind."

In answer he gave her another smile and bow, then turned and left. Lithiníel watched as the door shut behind him and reflected how nothing in this place was as she might have expected it to be. To meet with such courtesy from the Dark Lord's steward, and to be housed in such comfort -- well, she certainly could never have imagined that such a thing was remotely possible. Add to that the intimacies she had shared with Sauron the evening before...her thoughts broke off as she found herself blushing once again. As much as she might have wanted to see him, perhaps it was best that he had granted her this time alone. At least this way she might have a greater interval to collect herself, to school herself to calm before she faced him again. Besides, it was one thing to see him in dreams, and quite another to have to confront his fearful form in this world. Again, it was entirely possible that he wished now only to see her in the visions brought on by the _palantír_, so that he would not have to show her his altered self.

She did find herself hoping, as she sat down and waited for Sarna to bring her the midday meal, that Sauron did intend to return to her dreams that night. Wrong as it might be, at the moment all she wanted was to hear his voice again, and to feel his mouth on hers. As he had said, it was only a dream, after all. What could be the harm in that?

* * *

Sauron had thought that some of the need which seemed to burn through his veins would have been lessened by holding her, forcing her to kiss him. But all that had done was to increase his desire. After all, he knew where such things were supposed to lead, even if she did not.

Her response had surprised him -- he had expected her to be timid, to make an attempt to break free from his grasp. But after those first few seconds of startled quiescence, she had returned the kiss with an ardor that was completely unexpected. Even now he thought he could taste the sweetness of her mouth, feel the softness of her lips against his. Folly, he knew -- where could such an attachment possibly end?

Time enough to consider that later, he supposed. For now it was a seductive distraction, that dream world they had built together, where two beings so wholly dissimilar could somehow meet in unforeseen passion. He had spent far too much of the time after he had returned to this world in recalling those delicious sensations, rather than attending to the latest reports from his Nazgûl regarding the quest for his Ring, or the more heartening tallies of tribute that still poured in from his territories to the south and east.

The rebuilding had taken many years, and he still had many more to go, but at last Sauron had begun to see an end to his travails, a time when Mordor would at last have amassed enough strength to take on Gondor and the west and resolve this conflict once and for all. As he thought of that long sought-after goal, desire for the Ring rose in him again, subsuming -- for the moment, at least -- his desire for Lithiníel. If only he could regain his prize, then the kingdoms of the west would fall before him like so many castles made of sand.

But no trace of it had yet been found, and although he had not given up hope -- never that -- he had formulated his plans so that he could triumph even without the Ring to lend him strength. He envisioned his armies flooding over Minas Tirith, on to Rohan, and beyond, sweeping away his enemies and all those who would challenge the might of Mordor. Middle Earth needed a strong hand, one which would bring order, and his was the one to do it.

What part Lithiníel might play in his schemes, he was not yet sure. He saw no reason to hide his plans from her -- after all, he had never made a secret of the fact that he wished to be Middle Earth's overlord. Despite that, she had still allowed him to become familiar with her, when surely one would have expected her to spurn his advances, even if it meant her death. Perhaps whatever darkness of spirit had led her to attempt to take her own life had sought out the blackness within him, even if she did not know it consciously. Of course she would never betray her people, but possibly she could be prevailed upon to convince what passed for leaders among the Eldar -- Elrond and Celeborn and that cursed witch, Galadriel -- that it was better for all concerned for them to depart these shores forever, and return to the lands of Valinor. Then he could rule Middle Earth uncontested. Men were weak and easily led, and the Dwarves too few to challenge him. With the Elves gone, he would be free to do as he pleased.

The thought pleased him, and Sauron smiled within the depths of the hood which perpetually hid his face. No doubt he would even be able to persuade Lithiníel that what she did at his bidding was for the best. After all, hadn't the Eldar long considered themselves to be exiles in Middle Earth? Would it not be granting them a boon long desired to finally give them a reason to leave these forsaken shores? Surely even an _elleth_ as young and headstrong as Lithiníel could see the good in such an argument.

But she would stay, the last of her people, to be a living memory and to serve as his consort. Not a queen -- he would not share his rule -- but at least the Dark Lord's honored companion.

Having disposed thus of their futures, Sauron bent once more over his maps and his scrolls of careful numbers and figures. He longed for the fall of night, when he could go to her once more and begin the next step of her seduction, but that hour would be here soon enough. In the meantime, he could bend his thoughts to the coming war, and his eventual domination of Middle Earth.

* * *

The Mouth of Sauron returned to his chambers early that evening, dismissed by his master, who had seemed oddly preoccupied. By whom, the Mouth found it easy enough to guess.

He had overheard Lithiníel's exchanges with the Dark Lord, but it was quite another thing to come face to face with her, to actually speak with her. Up close, she was even more beautiful, but that mattered little to him. She, too, had seemed occupied, her thoughts elsewhere, even though her replies had been coolly gracious, correct in every way. He had seen little of the _elleth_ who had dared to speak boldly to Sauron and refused to be cowed by his presence.

_Something transpired last night_, he thought, _something which changed her, and appears to have changed my master as well. But what?_

No answer came immediately to him; the Mouth recalled well that the evening before Sauron had received a delegation of Easterlings and then had left the throne room, going to the chamber which held the _palantír_. He had thought nothing of it, as the Dark Lord often held discourse with his Nazgûl lords in such a manner.

Scowling in frustration, the Mouth cast about in his mind for possible explanations and found none. So he sent out a summons for his dinner to be brought to him; if nothing else, the time spent in such an activity might allow him to come up with some sort of justification for the alteration he had seen in the she-Elf.

His dinner came, brought to him by the same Haradrim girl who had been assigned to serve the Dark Lord's Elvish captive. She set the tray down on a table, her eyes downcast; no doubt she had heard of the Mouth of Sauron's proclivities and hoped to escape notice.

He smiled then, and said, "Sarna."

The girl startled at the sound of her name, but kept her eyes down on the polished marble floor. "Yes, my lord."

"You have been attending the Lady Lithiníel?"

At that question, the slave girl risked a quick glance in his direction. She was rather pretty, if a bit dark for his tastes; he preferred the slave girls of Gondorian extraction. Still, this one could prove to be...diverting.

"Yes, my lord," she said again.

"And did you bring her a supper tray tonight?"

The girl nodded, looking puzzled. No doubt she couldn't quite comprehend his sudden interest in such minor details. The Mouth of Sauron functioned as the Dark Lord's steward, but he had other men who worked for him and who oversaw the kitchens and sculleries and the assignments of the various slaves who toiled there. Normally such things would be far beneath him.

"And how did she seem?" he inquired.

"'Seem'?" the girl repeated. "I'm not sure I understand, my lord."

"Her mood, girl," he said, standing and going to her. She was a slight thing, barely reaching to his collarbone. Young as well -- no doubt she had yet to see twenty summers.

His proximity flustered her, as he had intended it to. Her hands twisted in the folds of her heavy dark skirts, and she stammered, "As -- as always, my lord. Very reserved, she is. But polite."

"So nothing about her seemed...different?" And as he asked the question, he lifted his right hand and let it settle on her shoulder. Her body felt frail and thin under his fingers as he exerted the slightest pressure against her flesh.

A shudder went through her, and he smiled.

"Now that I think on it, my lord, she seemed...faraway."

"Faraway?"

"As if she were thinking of something else, my lord," the girl said quickly, as if she hoped that by giving him the information he needed, he might then release her. "She asked me how long until nightfall, as if she somehow expected something to happen then."

"What?"

"I don't know, my lord. She has no visitors, save the Dark Lord that one time. And he came to her in the morning, not at night. I bring her her supper, she eats, I take the tray away. And I sleep on a pallet outside her door, should she need me some time during the evening."

"Not a very comfortable bed, I would think," the Mouth of Sauron said, allowing himself to linger ever so slightly on the word _bed_.

The slave girl swallowed, and kept her gaze fixed on the floor. "It is my duty, my lord."

"Of course." He paused, then asked, "But she said nothing else to you? Nothing at all?'

"No, my lord. I did get the feeling that she couldn't wait to go to sleep -- I just thought that perhaps it was because she could dream and imagine herself to be someplace far from here. Not meaning to be impertinent, my lord," the girl added hastily.

"No impertinence, Sarna," he replied. "A good observation, I would think. No doubt an Elvish captive would wish herself to be very far away from Mordor." He lifted his hand from her shoulder, and he could almost see her sag with relief. Not allowing himself to smile -- little did she know that she had no reason to feel relieved -- he added, "However, I cannot help but feel there is something more to it than that."

The girl blinked up at him, eyes dark and wide. No woman of Númenorean descent had eyes that color, eyes that were made even more exotic by the sooty application of kohl that all her people wore.

"Will you do me a favor, Sarna?" he asked.

Again the girl's hands twisted in her skirt. "A favor, my lord?"

"It is simple enough. Only to observe the Elf-maid closely, and report anything strange about her behavior to me. I do this for the Dark Lord, you understand. He wishes to know all he can of his captive."

"Of course, my lord," she said immediately, the mention of Sauron bringing a sudden look of terror to her eyes.

_Ah, but he is not the one you should fear, my child_, the Mouth thought, smiling inwardly. He assumed an expression of grave interest, however, and went on, "You will not disappoint me, will you?"

"Oh, no, my lord!"

That remained to be seen. He allowed himself to study her for a moment. Her thin form lacked the curves he usually desired, but her waist was fine and narrow, and her mouth had a full lower lip that promised delights of a different sort. She could be quite pleasing, if properly trained.

His unblinking regard made her uncomfortable, he could tell. Her gaze dropped to the floor once again, and she stood very still. She would not be the type to resist him, he thought. Some of the slaves had struggled. He did not find that sort of thing particularly arousing -- he preferred ones such as this girl, who would succumb without a fight. What he enjoyed was the knowledge that they did not dare to defy him.

He bent down toward her, and whispered in her ear, "Do not fail me."

She flinched, then said, "No, my lord."

He could take her now if he wished. She would do nothing to stop him. But he thought it might be more diverting to toy with her a bit first, make her do his bidding in this matter. She would think that she had staved off his advances by following his orders -- a hope that would be cruelly dashed once he finally did make her his own. As much as he wished to rid himself of Lithiníel, he also felt a rush of satisfaction in knowing that he could also amuse himself with this girl in the process.

"That is all," he said, after a long pause. "You may go."

The girl dropped a quick curtsey and then backed away before fleeing to the door. She flung herself out of it with as much haste as if Shelob had been pursuing her. Who knows? Perhaps she would have preferred that fate than the one which awaited her.

Foolish child. Loss of virtue was no great thing for a slave, and he had come to believe that some of the girls he used so had begun to enjoy his caresses. Either that, or they had acquired a talent for play-acting somewhere along the way. In any case, even though he had allowed her to escape unscathed tonight, that did not mean he intended to do so indefinitely.

Still, the encounter with Sarna had aroused him, and he wondered if he should call for another of the slave girls to assuage his need. After a moment of reflection, he decided against it. Better to channel that energy into unlocking the puzzle that Lithiníel presented.

_What is it that you hope for when you sleep?_ he wondered._ Is it simply that your mind is taken far away from here, to the only escape you will ever have? Or is there more to it than that, something I have overlooked?_

These questions had no answers, of course, and after a time he forced his mind to stop running in circles, to allow him the rest he needed to face the coming day. At least now he had a spy in place, one motivated by fear to discover everything about Lithiníel that she could.

_Keep your secrets for now, she-Elf_, he thought. _They will not be yours for much longer..._


	7. Seven

Sorry about the long delay in updating this story -- I had another fic I wanted to finish, and I've also been working on my original writing. But here we are, and I'm fairly sure the delay won't be nearly as long next time. Thank you for your patience, and all your wonderful reviews!

* * *

Seven

Lithiníel plunged into sleep gladly that night, falling into its dark embrace like a diver seeking a rare black pearl. The day had stretched on too long, feeling taut and used-up by the time night fell and she could at least seek the refuge of her bed. An odd sensation for one of her kind, who usually viewed each day as a fleeting flicker, one more in a progression with no end. For the first time she had caught a glimpse of how a mortal might view the passage of time, and she found she did not care for it overmuch.

But now it was only blessed slumber, and the hope that she would be with the Dark Lord again soon. As she was, although once more she could not discern whether she had been asleep for hours or mere minutes before the dark fog parted, and she found herself once again standing in Sauron's chambers.

At first she did not see him; the leather curtain had been drawn aside, showing once again a cold midwinter night. Lithiníel walked in that direction, as she had the thought that perhaps he awaited her on the stone balcony outside. But the balcony was deserted, although she noted one alteration since the time she had stood here the night before. Off to her right an angry orange glow stood out against the black sky. For a few seconds she stared at it, uncomprehending, and then she realized she must be looking at Mount Orodruin as it erupted in ash and flame. It had a strange, barbaric beauty that awoke an odd ache in her breast. She stood there for a long moment, watching as the lava flowed down the mountain's flanks like some fire creature from ancient legend.

"What do you think of my mountain?" came Sauron's voice from behind her.

Lithiníel pulled her gaze from the unsettling allure of Orodruin and turned to look at the Dark Lord, who, she was forced to admit, possessed an equally disturbing beauty.

For a moment she said nothing. At length she replied, "It suits you."

He smiled. The glow from the fiery ruin coursing down the mountain sides awoke a strange reddish gleam in his pale eyes. "Yes, I would expect it does. I can awaken the fire, you know -- as all else in Mordor, the mountain follows my commands."

From anyone else, such a statement would have sounded like sheer bravado. From Sauron, however, the words were only the simple truth. He did control the fires of Mount Orodruin -- hadn't it been in their depths that he created the One Ring, the source of Middle Earth's despair?

Such thoughts led her mind to pathways it did not wish to explore, however, so she said lightly, "It casts a pleasing glow, when seen from this distance. I assume there is nothing in its path that could be destroyed?"

He made a sound that was almost a chuckle. "Do not concern yourself with such things. All that could be harmed by Mount Orodruin's fires was burned to ash many years ago. The lava flows to a plain of barren rock, no more."

"I am glad of that," Lithiníel replied, feeling inexplicably relieved. What concern was it of hers whether or not any of Sauron's servants could be harmed by the beautiful but deadly display of power this current eruption revealed?

"But we did not come here to speak of such trifles," the Dark Lord said, his tone soft, and she glanced up at him, to see his gaze resting on her mouth.

"That is the heart of the matter, is it not, my lord?" she asked, meeting his eyes as well as she could. "Why did we come here?"

"Do you truly not know the answer?"

Of course she did -- she saw it in the curve of his mouth, the gleam in his eyes. The same hunger that had driven her to seek slumber the way a starving man would search out food had brought him here as well. What had passed between them the night before had only been a prelude. Where this might lead, she couldn't begin to think. All that seemed to matter was that they were together now, in this strange construct which resembled the waking world but was not truly of it.

She lifted her chin and replied, "I will not bother to prevaricate, my lord, for surely you will see through any falsehood I might hope to offer. I came here to be with you, as I hope you came here to be with me."

"Dreams have made you bold, Lithiníel," Sauron said, and he smiled. "But you have the truth of it well enough." Lifting a hand, he reached out to cup the side of her face, his fingers warm and strong against her skin.

A thrill ran through her, followed by an odd but not unwelcome warmth in the pit of her stomach. Surely if she had any sense left she would attempt to flee, to step away at least so that she might break off that unsettling but strangely arousing contact. But she knew she could not more move away from him than she could throw herself into the fires of Mount Orodruin. If her doom was to lose herself in the Dark Lord's arms, she told herself, with more conviction than she felt, then so be it.

"Where can any of this lead?" she asked at last, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Wherever we wish," he said, and bent to cover her mouth with his, so that any further questions might be thwarted.

The touch of his lips sent molten fire through her veins, caused her knees to weaken so that she reached out to throw her arms around him, holding on to him the way a drowning swimmer might cling to a rock in the middle of a river in flood. All thought fled. The world had become only this: the feel of his mouth, the taste of him, the enormous strength she sensed in his arms and chest.

Then his mouth lifted from hers, and went on to trail down her throat, his touch eliciting a series of small shudders as he found the sensitive spot at the base of her neck. He raised her heavy hair out of the way so that he might reach the hollow of her throat more easily, and Lithiníel could only continue to clutch him, knowing that if he did not hold her up, she might sink down to her knees then and there. Her breathing sounded even to her like that of a winded horse.

"Stop," she whispered at last, that one word seeming to require the last remnants of her strength. She wasn't even sure she meant it, only that if she did not utter some sort of protest, she might lose herself forever in him.

To her surprise, the Dark Lord did lift his head. He gave her a slow, amused look, then said softly, "Do you not like it?"

For a few heartbeats she just stared at him, thinking his question utterly absurd. He might as well have asked her whether she liked the color of the sky. "That is immaterial," she said at last.

"Ah," he replied. The sardonic glint never left his pale eyes. "Perhaps you would prefer this." And he bent his head once more, the heavy dark hair brushing against her skin as he laid his mouth against the exposed flesh of her open neckline. Ever lower his lips moved, until he reached the hollow between her breasts.

A gasp tore itself out of her, and at last Lithiníel seemed to find the capacity for independent movement. She ripped herself from his grasp, stepping back a few paces and stumbling on the train of her skirts. At last she fetched up against the wall of the tower; it met her spine with a jarring crunch, but she almost welcomed the pain, as it seemed to clear some of the fog from her mind. She lifted her head to see Sauron watching her, the reflected glow from Mount Doom limning the side of his face in ghastly orange hues. In that moment she thought she could perceive the distortion behind the fair Maiar face he had always presented to her, and she shuddered.

But then his mouth lifted in a mocking smile, and he remarked, "It would appear that my fair Elf-maid is something of a tease."

His words served to clear the last of the lust-induced haze from her mind. "And it would appear that my lord forgets himself!"

The smile never altered. "How so?"

"We may wander far in dreams and visions, my lord, but I am not so lost that I would give myself to you in such a way!"

"A brave speech," he replied. "You will forgive me, my lady, if I find I do not believe it. Your actions contradict your words, I fear."

Lithiníel suddenly became aware of how cold the night air was, how a biting wind had arisen from nowhere to pierce her through her thin silken gown. It added an extra chill to the icy stones at her back. But at least it made her feel more real, not some creature of air and darkness whom the Dark Lord might have summoned at his command. "Perhaps they do," she said, after a moment. "Or perhaps it is just that I have finally found the strength to realize what we do is folly."

"You did not think it folly when it was all pretty words and stolen kisses," Sauron retorted.

True enough, and for a moment she could not think of a coherent reply. Then she said, "A kiss is one thing, my lord. Your actions suggest you desire something far more."

"And you do not?" he inquired, his tone silky.

_Yes_, some shadowy part of her mind responded, but Lithiníel crossed her arms and said, "Do you forget, my lord, that the Eldar do not give of themselves so lightly? Perhaps mortals can lose themselves in such meetings of the flesh, with no thought of connection or consequence, but we cannot. We join with one, and one only, and that joining is forever."

The Dark Lord made an impatient gesture. "Fine words, Lithiníel, but do you not understand that what we do here has no bearing on our lives in the real world? It is only a dream, a shared vision. Why not seek the freedom in dreams that we cannot have in the waking world?"

His words sounded convincing, but Lithiníel knew there was a flaw at the heart of his logic, like a worm at the heart of an apple. "You may say so, my lord, but since we recall everything of what transpires between us when we return to our lives, then why does what happens here have any less significance? Our choices hold the same weight; our actions cannot be easily erased or forgotten."

For a moment he was silent, face still bathed in the reflected angry glow of Mount Doom. Now he could almost have been a statue, one of the great monuments the Men of Númenor had left behind to ensure future generations remembered them and their deeds. A gleam came and went in his eyes, and he spoke at last. "And what if I were to ask for your hand? Would you give it to me?"

The question shocked her; Lithiníel had thought he merely dallied with her, finding her company a welcome respite from the dark beings with whom he had surrounded himself. He could not have truly meant those words. Finding her voice, she faltered, "My lord?"

"This surprises you?"

She bowed her head, not wanting to see the terrible need in his eyes. "I confess it does, my lord. Do you ask for this merely because it is the only way you can have me?"

He laughed then, and she lifted her head to give him a startled look. "And what if I were to answer yes? For I will tell you now, Lithiníel, that I have never before felt the need to have someone who might share my solitude. Such things did not concern me. But now -- to have it so close, and yet beyond my grasp -- this is not a situation much to my liking. I speak to you plainly, so that you may know my heart."

"Your heart?" she managed. "Truly, my lord, there are many who would doubt you possess such a thing."

In answer he stepped closer to her, then took one of her hands in both of his, and pressed her palm flat against the heavy wool that covered his chest. "Do you not feel it?"

Indeed she could; the slow, strong beat of the heart within his breast would not be denied. Reluctantly, she nodded.

He released her hand then, and stared down at her for a long moment. "Then do not say I have none. You more than anyone else should know I am not all that I seem."

Lithiníel's own heart ached then, for the barrier her words seemed to have built between the two of them, and for her own apparent inability to bridge it. Why was it so difficult to give in to him, to let him persuade her that what happened here in this world of shadows was of no consequence? Truly his touch awakened a passion in her that she had never known existed. Why could she not allow herself to be with him? Was it simply that she knew in the waking world he was still a monster?

"That is true, my lord," she said at last. She forced herself to meet his eyes, to find the strength to say what she must. "You have shown me mercy, when I expected none. Regard, when it was most unlooked-for. I will not lie and say I am indifferent. But I cannot live a half-life, yours only in dreams. Surely you must understand that."

This time the silence was his. He said nothing, but merely gazed at her. Once again his features were so still they might have been carved from stone. "Then farewell, Lithiníel," he replied, the words barely above a whisper. He leaned forward, and locked his mouth with hers once more, his kiss seeming to draw all light from the world, pulling her down into blackness, down into an abyss so deep she knew that she could never escape it….

* * *

She awoke, tears streaming down her cheeks. A worried voice inquired, "My lady?"

Lifting eyelids that felt as if they had been weighted down with lead, Lithiníel looked up into Sarna's worried face. "Where am I?"

"Well, here," Sarna replied, appearing more concerned by the minute. "Your chambers, my lady. Your own bed."

Lithiníel pushed herself up against the pillows and attempted to take her bearings. Yes, the room appeared unchanged, the same dark heavy furniture, the same rich hangings on the walls and windows. _But it is not truly mine_, she thought. _I have all this on the Dark Lord's sufferance, and now…._

Now she had spurned him, refused even the meager comfort her embrace might give in the world of dreams. What would he do to her now? Cast her at last into the dungeons? Execute her on one of the hellish devices rumor said existed in the deepest levels of Barad Dûr? The pain that might involve seemed a slight thing compared to the anguish she felt now.

Did he ache as she did? Impossible to know; his face had betrayed nothing, even as he had bent to kiss her into oblivion. He had said he possessed a heart, but had she wounded it, or merely his pride?

"My lady?" Sarna said again, her voice sounding even more uncertain. "You should not weep so. Was it a nightmare?"

Lithiníel shifted to look into the girl's concerned face. Dark and exotic Sarna might be, unlike any Elf or woman of Gondor, but her face was kind, open. "You could call it that," she replied.

Sarna frowned slightly. "It's this place, my lady," she said, with a quick, darting glance to the door, as if she feared someone might be listening in on their conversation. "I have bad dreams, too."

The girl's confession surprised Lithiníel; she had not thought that a servant of Sauron's would be affected by the brooding, dark atmosphere of his citadel. Then again, the Dark Lord himself had said that not all was as it seemed….

"I am sorry to hear that," Lithiníel said. "I am being foolish, perhaps. Dreams cannot hurt us, can they?" Even as she spoke the words, she wondered. Ordinary dreams, perhaps, but all that had transpired between her and Sauron in those places beyond the world had felt real enough. Real, and painful.

"No, my lady," was the reply, but Sarna sounded dubious. Lithiníel wondered what dark dreams had visited her when she at last lay down to sleep at night, her day's work done.

"Do you know the hour?" Lithiníel asked. It felt like morning, but the light beyond the heavy curtains was dark and diffuse, telling her little.

"Early morning, my lady. It's just that I heard you cry out in your sleep, and came in to see how you fared."

The girl's statement told Lithiníel that apparently she still slept on her pallet outside the door. No one had come to tell Sarna to abandon her post, that the one whom she guarded no longer had the Dark Lord's favor. This meant little, she supposed; Sauron could change his orders for her at any time. But for now, it appeared, nothing had changed.

"I thank you for your solicitude," Lithiníel said. "I hope I did not trouble your own sleep overmuch."

"Oh, I was awake already," the girl replied, her tone frank. "Some nights it's hard to sleep, what with people coming and going. But never mind that -- " she added quickly, apparently seeing Lithiníel's expression change to one of concern, " -- I'm used to it."

Stout words, ones which Lithiníel did not believe. But she also had the impression that Sarna did not want her to ask any more questions, and so she held her tongue.

"Shall I bring your bath, my lady?" the girl asked, clearly wanting to change the subject.

That sounded well enough; if nothing else, it would occupy a few moments, allow her to concentrate on something besides her disastrous encounter with the Dark Lord. "Certainly, Sarna," Lithiníel said.

The girl nodded, and turned to go.

Lithiníel would never know what stray impulse made her ask suddenly, "Sarna?"

She paused, one hand on the door handle. "Yes, my lady?"

"Have you ever wished a dream could come true?"

The girl's eyes met hers, dark, haunted by some unknown memory. "Only some, my lady." And she slipped out, leaving Lithiníel to brood over what was to come next.

* * *

The Mouth watched the slave girl carefully, turning her words over in his mind. "And that is exactly what she said?"

"Yes, my lord."

_Have you ever wished a dream could come true?_ Ah, but to what dream could she possibly be referring?

"And she wept?"

Sarna nodded. "Truly, my lord, I have never seen her so troubled. But if her sleep was disturbed by nightmare, why would she then ask me if I wished whether a dream could come true or not?"

Why, indeed. The puzzle had deepened; something had happened to harrow the young _elleth_'s mind, but what? A darker mood than usual seemed to have descended on the citadel this day; the Dark Lord himself had been wrapped in a temper blacker than the robes he wore. Nothing had happened the previous night to explain his ominous silences, the cutting way he responded to his servant's reports. He had had another extended session with the _palantír_, true, but the Mouth had seen the latest tallies and reports for himself. All was going well.

Another session with the _palantír_….

Frowning, he gave Sarna a sharp look. "And that is all she said? Nothing more?"

The girl's fingers knotted themselves in the dark fabric of her skirt. "She said that dreams couldn't hurt us, but she had a strange look on her face when she spoke, as if she wasn't sure whether that was really true or not."

"I see," he said, but the damnable truth of it was, he did not. Somehow there had to be a connection, something he had overlooked.

Sarna continued to stand there, staring down at the floor so she wouldn't have to meet his eyes, and he felt a rush of anger that she should be the one in whom the she-elf confided. Who knew if the stupid girl could even remember things correctly, or had the wit to recognize a chance utterance as being significant?

The sight of her suddenly disgusted him, and he spat, "Get out."

Without answering, the girl fled the room. No doubt she was relieved to be out of his presence so quickly. Time enough to toy with her later. For now he had to think.

What was it about the _palantír_? Was there some connection between that and the she-elf's ridiculous talk of dreams? He himself had few, and they consisted of trace fragments of his day, or dark scenarios of women's bodies, dreams that would invariably lead him to call one of the slaves to slake his lust and allow him to sleep untroubled afterward. Somehow he doubted that was the sort of dream which haunted Lithiníel or caused her to awake with tear-stained cheeks and talk of nightmares.

This was not the first time both she and the Dark Lord had seemed altered after an evening spent apart, one in which he visited the seeing-stone and she apparently lost herself in slumber. He did not pretend to understand the workings of the _palantír_ or all the nuances of its powers. Schooled he had been in the darker arts, what Men of these days might call magic, but the seeing-stones were far beyond such things, relics of the lands beyond the sea that they were, wrought in Valinor by the cursed Valar. Was it possible that the Dark Lord returned to his night after night, not to speak with his trusted servants, but to have some sort of congress with that Elf-bitch?

He did not want to think such a thing might be true. For one, it would mean that somehow Lithiníel had gone where no others had, that she had found a way to touch the Dark Lord's thoughts without the aid of the _palantír_. Such a thing was unheard-of, as far as he knew, but just because it might be unprecedented did not necessarily mean that it was untrue.

If this were the case, then what had they shared, in a meeting of minds that seemed to take place in Lithiníel's dreams? Nothing good, he supposed, judging by her state this morning…or the Dark Lord's current mood. If they had quarreled, that was all to the good, wasn't it? But if she had somehow displeased Sauron, why had he not removed her from her comfortable chambers and thrown her into the dungeons? Many had suffered far more for far less.

Questions seemed to breed even more questions, and even as he wrestled with them, the Mouth could find no easy answers. Of course it was impossible for him to make inquiries with his master, but perhaps he could approach the she-elf under the guise of friendship, see if she might reveal something that would clear up the mystery. She had no reason to distrust him, after all, and he could only imagine that she, alone and captive as she was here, would be receptive to kind words spoken in an understanding tone. Years of service to the Dark Lord had honed his skills at dissembling, and the Mouth felt it would be easy enough to trick her into making confessions that could prove useful. If nothing else, at least he might learn some of what had passed between her and his master. He found he did not care overmuch for the notion that they might have shared secrets. She, a cursed member of the Eldar, certainly did not deserve to have been taken into the Dark Lord's confidence.

Sauron forbade mirrors in his citadel, no doubt wishing to avoid his own disfigured countenance, but the Mouth kept a small one of polished silver in his own chambers, hidden underneath the feather mattress on his bed. He drew it out now and stared at his own reflection, practicing an appropriate expression of sympathetic concern. Then he replaced it, and smiled. _You and I are going to be friends, Lithiníel_, he thought. _Very good friends…._


	8. Eight

A quick author's note here: Although this story of course has no true basis in canon, I am trying as hard as I can to make sure it follows the books (not the films) as closely as it can. From what I've read, Sauron indeed had a corporeal form, only a dark and terrible one. The symbol of the red eye was just that -- a symbol of his unceasing vigilance. There are clues in the books and Tolkien's notes to support the fact that Sauron was not a disembodied spirit (Gollum's quote, "He has only four [fingers on the Black Hand, but that is enough," is the one that stands out most clearly to me). Also, the idea that the Mouth is a monster, or somehow disfigured or deformed, mainly comes from the films and possibly myths that have built up in fanon. Tolkien described him as a Black Númenorean, and, as such, in appearance he probably wouldn't be too terribly different from the men of Gondor. 

Usually I don't do such long author's notes, but I just thought I should clear that up before I went any further. Thank you to everyone for your wonderful reviews -- I know I sound like a broken record, but they really do mean a lot to me.

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Eight

The Dark Lord sat on his throne, back straight as a sword, his thoughts bitter and hard as cold steel. No one had dared to disturb his solitude; no doubt the black mood that had gripped him was strong enough to have taken on a shape and form of its own, forbidding entry to his audience chamber.

How could Lithiníel have presumed to refuse him? Of all her possible reactions, outright rejection was something he had never considered. Had he not seen the kindled desire in her eyes? Had he not heard her breathing quicken, felt her skin warm and her pulse begin to race as he took her into his arms? She had certainly given every outward sign of a woman ready to succumb.

But to have gone from all that to tearing herself from his grasp, only to shakily inform him that she could have no part of a relationship built on dreams and visions -- well, he had certainly never thought to find himself spurned in such a fashion. At the time, instead of the searing rage he knew he should have felt, he had experienced only a pang of loss almost as terrible as that which he had suffered as the Ring was cut from his finger. He could not bear to look at her any longer, to gaze at the face that should have been his, and so he had sent her forth from the dream before she could see how she had wounded him.

The anger came at last, though, slow and steady as the lava that flowed down Mount Orodruin's scarred flanks. Who was she, after all, this _elleth_ barely into her second century, to spurn the lord of Mordor? Did she not know that he held her very life within his hands? Almost he had sent the order forth to have her removed from her luxurious chambers to the blackest hole Barad Dûr could offer. Why should she live in comfort, when she had caused him such pain?

In the end, however, he stayed his hand, even while reserving such punishments for the future, if necessary. Never before in his life had he concerned himself with the misery he had inflicted on another living being, but somehow the thought of her fragile beauty sent down to shatter on the unyielding rock of his citadel's deepest dungeon did not give him the satisfaction he thought it would. Instead, the idea of Lithiníel huddled down there in the noisome darkness only made his heart ache further. She would stay where she was for now. Perhaps the solitude would be enough to make her reflect on what she had done.

His mercy perhaps was a sign of weakness; he had never shown such a quality before, and he therefore did not know if his regard for Lithiníel had somehow wrought a permanent change in him, or whether he made allowances now simply because he had not quite given up on the thought that he might be able to persuade her to change her mind at a later date. She had sounded adamant, but females were changeable creatures, or so rumor went. He had never had enough experience with them to know for certain. What he might do or say to enact such a change was beyond him at the moment, but he would not give up -- not yet. Further reflection might provide the answer, if he could only think of where to look for it. Persistence was perhaps not always considered a virtue, but it seemed to be the only one he had for now. At the moment, he simply refused to think that Lithiníel would never be his.

Why it should matter so much, he could not say. Ere this time he had been content to live out his existence in solitude, alone and untrammeled. But somehow Lithiníel had insinuated herself inside his circle of loneliness, and he found the thought of returning to that isolation very unappealing.

_What has she done to me?_ he wondered, but he received no answer, only the hollow beating of his own heart, alone in its cage of flesh and bone.

* * *

The Mouth of Sauron bided his time until early the next evening, thinking that perhaps leaving the she-Elf alone for a goodly span of time would make her more open to conversation…and confidences. Sarna had reported to him that Lithiníel ate nothing of her noontime meal and only a small portion of her supper. Obviously something troubled the _elleth_, but she said very little to the slave girl beyond thanking her for the food.

That Sarna was worried as well, he discerned almost immediately, but he cared very little for a servant's troubles. If all went well, he would have his answers soon enough. Certain subtle drugs from Harad had been known to loosen a prisoner's tongue when torture failed, and he had secreted a vial of one on his person as insurance against the she-Elf's reticence. One way or another, he would have the truth of things.

A flagon of fine wine provided his excuse for visiting Lithiníel. He made his way to her chambers, arranging his expression so that she could not possibly detect anything except polite interest and solicitude from his outward appearance. When he knocked and she opened her door, Lithiníel looked surprised to see him, but she recovered herself almost immediately and bade him enter, even going so far as to offer him a shy smile when he showed her the wine and informed her that he felt troubled she should be left so alone.

"I thank you for that," she replied. "But indeed, I find I have more here than I could ever have hoped for. The Dark Lord is most…kind."

The Mouth could not help but detect the slight hesitation in her voice as she uttered that last word. Whether that was simply because she had wondered if even Sauron's most trusted servant would have a hard time believing that epithet could be applied to the Dark Lord, or whether it was because some tension had arisen between the two of them, he had no way of knowing.

He said only, "I am glad that you find him so."

With that, he turned away from her and busied himself with pouring a measure of wine into each of the goblets he had brought, and he then added a few drops of the Haradrim drug into the one he intended for her. After he had finished, he extended the goblet toward her, and she took it with another smile, albeit one that seemed tinged with sadness.

"I fear I have not much to offer you to accompany the wine," she said, "but Sarna has lit a good fire in the hearth. Perhaps you will come and sit with me?"

In anyone else he would have distrusted such gentle courtesy, but she was, after all, one of the Eldar, a being who had mostly likely been raised to show others respect and regard. Certainly she could have no idea of what he had planned for her.

He followed her over to the fire and took the seat she indicated. She sat across from him, and lifted the goblet of wine to her lips. It took some effort for him to make sure that the surge of greedy satisfaction he felt at watching her sip its drugged contents did not reveal itself on his own features. He made himself drink some of the wine within his own goblet, then said, "Forgive me, my lady, but I cannot help but see that you seem rather low."

His words appeared to startle her a little; one delicate eyebrow lifted, and then she shrugged and replied, "Your perception does you credit, my lord. Indeed, I have suffered some slight agitation of the spirit, but it will pass, I assure you."

Assuming the expression of polite concern he had practiced earlier, the Mouth commented, "One could hardly fault you for such a thing, given your current situation."

His remark elicited only a careful sidelong look. "Do you wish me to rail against my captivity, my lord? I fear that is a wish I cannot grant -- I am not so lacking in perception that I cannot realize how unusual my situation is, or how blessed I should count myself for being held here, instead of some remote corner of the Dark Lord's dungeons."

Damn. She was being far too careful. He would have to think of the best way to draw her out -- and ensure that she drank more of the drugged wine. Evidently one sip was not enough to loosen her lips.

So he lifted his own goblet and drank again, and felt a slight easing of the tension in his throat as Lithiníel followed suit. "Truly the Dark Lord has shown you favor," he said, watching her carefully as he spoke the words.

A shadow seemed to cross her face at his comment, but she merely nodded and replied, "That is very true."

Usually he enjoyed playing his games of cat and mouse, of toying with his victims, but at the moment the Mouth wanted nothing more than the truth from her as quickly as possible so that he might think of the best way to dispose of her. He made an effort to push his impatience into the background so that no hint of it might enter his voice. "I must admit, my lady," he said, in confiding tones, "that I find myself…intrigued…by the regard the Dark Lord has shown you. I am but his humble servant, but I have been in his service for many long years, and I have to confess that I have never before seen him show such leniency toward one who -- and I beg your pardon for this -- must in the natural course of things have been considered an enemy of Mordor."

The clear eyes fastened on his face, and he forced himself to meet that gaze with a stare he hoped was equally guileless. Perhaps it was only the dim firelight, but it seemed to him her pupils looked larger than normal, pools of darkness surrounded by mist-grey. Such a side effect usually occurred in those who had been dosed with the drug he had given her, and he hoped that it had begun to work on Lithiníel.

She said, "This is also true, my lord." Then she glanced away from him and stared down at her hands as they lay knotted in her lap. "And it is because of the kindness which he has shown me that I find myself so presently low in spirits."

"My lady?" the Mouth inquired. Her remark did not make any sense to him; he hoped the drug would allow her to explain further.

Lithiníel gave him a wry smile. "I contradict myself, do I not? No doubt you think me quite foolish."

"Never that," he said immediately. "You are in a difficult situation, after all, alone here and far from your kind, with no one in whom you can confide." Those last few words he uttered in a raised inflection, one he intended as a means of planting the idea that he was the person to whom she should tell her secrets.

For a moment she was silent, gazing at the fire. Save its glow, the room was quite dark, and her delicate features were thrown into sharp relief, looking almost as if they could have been carved from marble, perfect and still.

At last she said, "You have known him a long time, have you not?"

"As my own people reckon the passage of years, yes," the Mouth replied. "For the Dark Lord, I am but the latest of many who have held my post. But I believe I have come to some familiarity with the lord of this land."

She turned away from the fire to regard him carefully. "Then perhaps I should seek your counsel."

Her comment made relief flood through him, but he said only, "Of course I will offer you any help I can." He leaned forward slightly, and added, "But you must tell me what it is that troubles you so if my counsel is to be of any use."

A tremor went through her slender form. For the first time the Mouth noticed the heavy emerald necklace she wore, how the stones glowed like green fire against her pale skin. One of the Dark Lord's gifts, surely. The sight of it caused a flare of irrational hatred, but he forced his features to remain still and calm. Very soon, if he were lucky, she would hand him the keys to her undoing.

The tale spilled forth from her lips, slowly at first, then more and more quickly, as if the secret she had carried within her had grown weightier with each passing moment, and now all she wished for was a chance to lay down her burden. He listened in growing astonishment as she told him how she had met with the Dark Lord in dreams and visions, how he had come to her there in his fair Maiar guise, and how through subsequent encounters she had come to realize she had formed a deep attachment to him. At last she confessed the quarrel which had ended their last meeting, and the reason for it.

"I never meant to hurt him," she said finally, by then her voice barely above a whisper. "But I could not be with him when it meant living only in dreams, and not sharing a true life together. I fear, however, that the Dark Lord is not one to suffer rejection, and I believe it is only a matter of time before he banishes me to the dungeons, or orders my execution."

How was it possible? How could the lord of Mordor, the Dark Lord of legend who had never before shown regard for another living thing, have somehow come to care for this young _elleth_? For he had, that much the Mouth knew; otherwise, the she-Elf would have met a dark fate as soon as she returned to this world. That made matters much more difficult, for if Sauron did love her, or at least believed he did, she would have to do something so heinous that it would cast her beyond the pale forever. Gone were the Mouth's nebulous schemes of somehow doing away with her himself -- he knew that somehow she would have to bring down her own doom, or surely the Dark Lord might guess who had plotted her demise.

Lithiníel stared at him with pleading eyes. He did not see her need, nor her beauty, nor her utter vulnerability. He saw only an obstacle, one which must be dealt with as quickly as possible. Only now that she had betrayed herself did he realize what a threat she posed.

As he gazed back at her, a plan began to form in his mind. No matter how much the Dark Lord might believe he had feelings for this _elleth_, the Mouth knew that in one matter the lord of Mordor would allow no sense of pity or love to stay his hand. And this fool of a she-Elf had given him the perfect means by which to effect his revenge.

"Your tale has moved me," he said at length -- no lie there, since her story had only heightened his rage and the desire to see her disposed of once and for all. "I fear there is only way you can mend this rift."

A flicker of terrible hope passed across her face. "What is that?"

_Foolish child_, he thought, but merely answered, "From what you have told me, it seems the Dark Lord has been wounded because you felt you could only feel attraction to him in dreams, and yet you wish for more than that. You must go to him and show him that you can be with him in this world as well."

"Is -- is that possible?"

He allowed a reassuring smile to lift his lips. "The Dark Lord has a true form -- you have seen his cloaked figure here in Barad Dûr. I cannot tell you what lies beneath that hood; I have never seen it. But if you truly love him, whatever impairment he might have suffered should be no impediment." He added, seeing the uncertainty in her eyes, "Or do you not have the courage to face him unless he wears his fair semblance of old?"

That question made her sit up a little straighter, and she lifted her chin. "His appearance matters little to me," she retorted.

"Then your course is clear."

For a moment she was silent, appearing to think the matter over. Then she asked, "But how can I go to him, when I am all but a prisoner here?"

"Have him come to you. Write to him, plead to see him. Send the note with your slave girl, and she will bring it to me. Then I will take it to the Dark Lord. I believe he will unbend enough to come see you." _Yes, he will come_, the Mouth thought, _if only to gloat over your begging to see him. And then you will throw back his hood, and he will strike you dead on the spot for having the temerity to reveal that which the Dark Lord has decreed must be forever hidden._

Lithiníel nodded. "I will do as you have advised."

The Mouth then rose to his feet and bowed. "I will send the slave girl to you directly, my lady."

She inclined her head, but her expression was distracted, as if she had already begun to think of what she might write to appeal to the Dark Lord.

He took his leave of her then, and managed to wait until he was safely in the corridor outside before a grin of horrible triumph distorted his mouth. _How neatly you fall into my trap, Lithiníel_, he thought. _One would almost think you wished to die…._

* * *

Sarna had taken the note and left, her expression puzzled. Of course she had not bothered to ask any questions; it was not her place to do so. After the girl had gone, Lithiníel paced the room, unable to find any occupation to divert her mind. Once she had paused and lifted the heavy curtain so she might see outside, but all was utter blackness. No moon shone overhead, and the stars were obscured. Not even a lava flow from Mount Orodruin served to relieve the unrelenting gloom. She had let the curtain fall from her fingers and went instead back to the fire, where she sat once again and wondered if she were utterly mad.

_But whose counsel could I take, if not the Mouth's?_ she thought. _He is Sauron's trusted servant; surely he must know the Dark Lord's mind better than anyone else._

She had bravely told the Mouth that Sauron's true appearance mattered little to her, but now, as she awaited the lord of Mordor, she wondered whether those words were true. It was one thing to play at love in a world of dreams and visions, a place where nothing was truly real, and quite another to approach the Dark Lord as he was here and now.

But she could not recall the note she had sent, and found she in fact did not wish to. _If you are mad enough to love him, then you may as well be mad enough to accept the shape he now wears_, she told herself. _For what are faces and forms but masks for the spirit within? Is it not that which you truly love?_

Something deep within her told her quietly, _Yes_, and Lithiníel found that affirmation was enough to keep her waiting by the fire. The time ticked past, and she began to wonder if Sauron were going to come to her at all. Perhaps it would serve her right for rejecting him so cruelly. If she had suffered such agonies of mind, what might he have endured since they last separated?

At last the door opened. Lithiníel turned from her study of the fire to see the Dark Lord enter the room. He had not bothered to knock, and she could not help but wonder if he had meant some subtle insult by that omission.

She rose to her feet then, conscious of the heavy weight of the emeralds he had given her against her throat. "My lord."

The hood dipped ever so slightly. "Lithiníel." His tone conveyed nothing of his current state of mind.

"I thank you for coming, my lord," she said. "I must speak with you."

"So your note said. I find myself wondering if we truly have anything to say to one another."

His physical presence almost overwhelmed her. She had become so accustomed to seeing him in his Maiar guise that she had forgotten how terrifying the Dark Lord's current form truly was. Did she have the courage to approach him, to reach out to him?

_You must_, she thought. _You must go to him, or he will be lost to you forever._

That realization gave Lithiníel the strength to move toward him, closing up the distance which separated them. Once she was within arm's length, she paused, then gazed up at the utter blackness within his hood. "My lord," she began, then shook her head. "Sauron," she went on, noticing how he seemed to become even more still as she uttered his name, "if my words during our previous meeting wounded you, I apologize for them now. At least this time apart has given me a chance to think, to ponder what it is that I truly want."

"And what is that?" he asked, so carelessly that he might have been inquiring as to the weather or the state of her health.

No doubt he had meant his indifference to wound, but Lithiníel would not allow him to hurt her so. That callousness was no doubt his defense against allowing her to injure him once more.

"I want you," she said, then stepped even closer to him. "Here, and now. I want no more barriers between us." And she reached up to push the heavy hood away from his face.

For a brief, unspeakable span of time, he merely stood there, unmoving as Barad Dûr itself. And in that single, shocked moment, Lithiníel could only remain as she was, gazing up into the ruin of his face. Then, finally, her mind seemed to come to life once again, as she thought, _What have I done?_

No whispered rumor of deformity, no dark speculation as to what damage the Dark Lord's fall had wreaked upon his physical form could have prepared her for the horror Lithiníel saw. She had spent her life surrounded by beauty, and so had no true way of measuring the ugliness of her lover's face.

She looked away, and immediately Sauron reached out and grasped her chin in burning fingers, forcing her to stare upward into his distorted features. "Fool of an Elf!" he cried. "Nay, do not attempt to avert your eyes, Lithiníel! Is this not what you wanted? Do you see now what it is you think you loved?"

In answer she could only shake her head, wrenching herself from his grip. Each place where his fingers had pressed into her flesh throbbed as if scalded. If only she could run -- flee this chamber and escape the terrible sight of the Dark Lord's face, find some place where she could stop and gather her wits.

But of course there was nowhere to run, no sanctuary to shield her from the lord of Mordor. As if her denial had inflamed him further, he caught at the unbound masses of her hair, jerking her head back so that she stared up directly into the livid ruin of his features.

"Look, damn you! Feast your eyes on my accursed ugliness! There is no escape now, Lithiníel, no refuge from your folly!"

His voice caught on those last few words, and that ragged edge to his words somehow led her to find a cool, unmoved part of her mind which told her, _See how you have hurt him? Perhaps he is a monster…or perhaps he is only one who has been terribly scarred by the world._

As this thought came to her, it was as if her sight sharpened, or as if in some way she discovered the power to look past the scars, the ravaged planes of his face, to see somewhere beneath the damage the contours of the one she had met first in dreams. It was rather like gazing on a gem that had once been fine and brilliant and had been scarred and pitted by countless ages of erosion and wear.

_Underneath, it is still him_, she thought. _I must show him I understand that._

This time unflinching, she continued to gaze up at him. His eyes were the same, that pale crystalline grey, although now they appeared almost red-tinged with fury. But behind the anger was a despair she couldn't begin to understand, one whose depths seemed to be as unfathomable as the ocean.

Instinct drove her to step toward him, to reach up to his scarred countenance, to wrap her hands tenderly around his face and draw him down to her. _It is the only way to make him see_, she thought, and pressed her lips against his.

For the space of a few heartbeats he seemed as immobile as one carved from stone, and then suddenly his mouth seemed to come to life, opening against hers, tongue touching tongue. His lips felt rough and unfamiliar, but the shape of his mouth was the same, and his taste the same -- indefinable, but somehow reminding her of the flavor of a mineral spring back in Imladris. Then his arms went around her, and he pulled her against him. Their heights were so dissimilar that it felt almost as if he lifted her off her feet so their embrace could continue…or possibly it was just the wave of dizziness that flooded over her which made her feel as if she were floating.

Perhaps another age of Men had come and gone while Sauron held her thus. Lithiníel could not say for certain; she only knew that when she at last returned to herself, the world felt as if it had been changed forever.

When he spoke, it was in a soft, wondering tone she had never heard from him before. "How is this possible? How can you not flee from me in disgust?"

She reached out and took one of his gloved hands in hers; no doubt the glove concealed more of the same scarring that covered his face. "It would be a poor love, would it not, to be based on such surface matters? If I came to love you as a dream, a spirit, then surely your form in this world can do little to trouble me."

Sauron said nothing for a moment, although his distorted features twisted, as if he were deep in thought. "I had not thought -- I believed that the only way we could ever be together was in that other world, in a place where I could assume my previous form. I did not dare to think that you could ever accept me as I am now."

Relief made Lithiníel feel a little giddy -- for a time back there, she had thought she saw red murder in his eyes -- and she laughed and replied, "Are these the words of the lord of Mordor, the one who is always so sure of himself?"

Smoothly, he said, "As I am, in all things save one." With his free hand, he reached out to touch the side of her face. "From the beginning you have surprised me, but never more than now, Lithiníel of Imladris."

"Then let us hope I continue to do so," she answered.

"I have no doubt of that." And he bent to kiss her once more, his cloak swirling around her in great black wings, as she surrendered to his touch, giving herself over to the feel of his mouth on hers.

Again she found herself lost in Sauron's embrace, until only one coherent thought was left to her.

_I will love you forever…._


	9. Nine

My most abject apologies for taking so long to update this story -- I got distracted by the final book of the Harry Potter saga and promptly went off to start another Snape fic (my bad, but ooh, what that Potions master does to me!). Please do know that I have every intention of finishing this story in the near future. We're really not that far off from the end. Thank you for your patience and understanding! (And all those reviews…you're all just splendid and deserve cookies or martinis or whatever else floats your boat.)

* * *

Nine

The Mouth had expected a summons to the Dark Lord's presence, but he had thought it would come sooner than this. At least two hours had to have elapsed since the lord of Mordor had received Lithiníel's note, and even if he had made her wait some time before going to see her, still she should have met her fate soon enough after that. But word had come eventually, and the Mouth hastened to Sauron's audience chambers, sure he would meet with a request to dispose of the _elleth_'s broken body, or at the very least be commanded to take her to Barad Dûr's dungeons.

When he entered the audience chamber, the Mouth felt almost blinded by all the candles that burned within; never before had he seen the stark space so brightly illuminated. Blinking, he made his way to the foot of the dais and kneeled before his master. The Dark Lord appeared unaltered at least; the dark hooded form stared down at him just as it always had.

"You summoned me, my lord?" the Mouth inquired, in his most neutral tones. It would not do to reveal the anticipation he felt at hearing of the she-elf's demise.

"Yes. I wish some alteration in my chambers, and I require the construction to begin at once."

The request was so unexpected that the Mouth felt his head jerk upward before he remembered himself enough to keep his gaze properly fixed toward the black marble floor. "My lord?"

"The sleeping chambers will need to be expanded, and there should be a sitting room with high windows, so she has proper light for her harp."

For some reason the cold floor upon which the Mouth knelt seemed to tilt beneath him. Again he could only murmur, "My lord?"

The Dark Lord made an impatient gesture. "Has your hearing failed you, my servant? The Lady Lithiníel will be joining me very soon in my quarters, and I desire that all should be readied for her stay."

If Sauron had just informed him that he intended to abandon his quest for the Ring and begin cultivating roses in the vale of Gorgoroth, the Mouth could not have been more flabbergasted. How was this possible? If she had followed his counsel, she should have reached out to the lord of Mordor in his current form, revealed his deformities, and thus been utterly destroyed for her temerity. Yet Sauron spoke of her as his future consort, and wished to alter his spacious chambers for her pleasure?

"Forgive me, my lord. It is only that -- I wish to say -- that is, this one must confess to some surprise at hearing your command." Damn, had he ever before sounded such a stammering fool? Better that he should have kept his mouth shut.

A low chuckle drifted out from beneath the Dark Lord's hood. "You are allowed some astonishment. Only see that it does not hamper your ability to carry out my commands. Now go. I am impatient for this to be done."

Knowing he could say nothing else, the Mouth touched his forehead to the ground in obeisance, then crawled away from his master's throne the space decorum required before he could get to his feet and back the rest of the way out of the audience chamber. Once outside, he uttered a vicious curse under his breath. How could that Elf bitch have gained the upper hand here? What power did she have over one who was so clearly her superior in every way? And now that it seemed she was in the Dark Lord's favor more than ever, what options still even existed for eliminating her?

As much as he would have liked to have stood there and railed against hideous fate for this latest blow, the Mouth knew he could not delay. He would have to think of another way of ridding himself of Lithiníel after Sauron's orders had been relayed to the necessary people. The Dark Lord's impatience was no small thing, not a matter to be ignored or put off until another time. No, the masons and stone cutters would be at work within the hour, making the necessary alterations in as much as haste as they could afford without being sloppy. For of course Sauron would not allow any shoddiness in his chambers. Everything would have to be perfect.

The Mouth began to move toward the staircase that would take him to the lower levels where the Dark Lord's builders were housed. After only a few steps, however, he paused. He knew he could not question Sauron, but he felt compelled to discover what had transpired between the Dark Lord and the _elleth_. Surely he could get her to reveal something -- and he could do it while under the guise of soliciting her advice for the alterations to Sauron's chambers. For naturally it would do to have her input, if these modifications were being made for her benefit.

His strides lengthening, he moved as quickly as he could in the direction of the she-elf's suite without inviting undue attention. One way or another, he was going to get the answers he required.

* * *

The knock on the door set Lithiníel's heart racing. It was too soon for Sauron to have returned to her, as he had said he had urgent matters to attend to, but perhaps he had found himself unable to stay away as long as he had thought. She knew that her own body seemed to thrum with the memory of his touch and the feel of his mouth on hers. The dreams of his Maiar self had turned out to be only poor shadows of the Sauron of this world. His scars did not disgust her, but only served as a physical reminder of all the pain he had borne through the years.

Pain to others he had caused -- she could not deny that. Perhaps it was a sign of the power he had over her that she somehow thought it possible to ignore his past. Or perhaps she hoped that through loving her he might come at least to realize he did not need his Ring or the entirety of Middle Earth within his grasp. It was a pleasant conceit, but Lithiníel realized, with an inward shiver, that she would stay with him no matter what. Had his kiss burned away all sense of justice, of morality?

_It is good your people probably think you dead_, she thought, _for if they were ever to learn of how far you had fallen, they would think you far more lost than one who had only crossed over to the halls of Mandos._

Frowning, she made her way to the entrance to her chamber, and then paused, trying to compose her face in more peaceful lines. It would not do to show Sauron any doubt, not after she had professed her love for him, had let him press his scarred mouth against hers. At any rate, she did not doubt the strength of her feelings for him -- only their rightness.

When she opened the door, however, she saw not Sauron's hooded form, but the coldly handsome face of the Mouth looking down at her.

He bowed. "My lady. Might I have speech with you?"

"Of course," she replied, with automatic politeness, although she could not help but wonder why he had come there. Still, she saw no reason to refuse him entry and stepped aside, allowing him to move past her into the chamber.

"My lord requests some changes to his rooms -- to accommodate you, my lady," the Mouth said. "Had you knowledge of this?"

Indeed Lithiníel had not, but she guessed Sauron would not wait long to make her formally his consort, not after what had passed between the two of them. The idea that he desired to alter his own suite to make it more pleasing to her both surprised and moved her. She loved him, but she had not realized he could be so thoughtful.

She made some sound of demurral, then added, "Not precisely. But he did speak somewhat of our future together."

An odd expression crossed the Mouth's face. She did not know him well and had little experience with Men beyond the Rangers of her acquaintance, but it seemed almost to her that he looked on her in resentment, and something more. Hatred? No, such a thing could not be possible. For hadn't it been his counsel which had given her the courage to approach Sauron on her own terms and make him realize his physical appearance mattered little to her?

The moment of uncertainty passed almost as quickly as it had come, for the Mouth said at once, "It is because of your future together that I come here, my lady. The Dark Lord would know your wishes for your apartments -- he mentioned something of tall windows in a chamber where you could play your harp. Is there anything else you would like?"

"His lordship is too thoughtful," she replied. "I desire nothing, save to be in his company."

As she spoke, Lithiníel watched the Man carefully -- and again she saw a tightening of the fine lines around his eyes, the slightest flare of his nostrils. But his mouth smiled as he said, "It seems my counsel has served you well, my lady. I am glad you have come to an understanding with his lordship."

That was what his words told her, but now she had made herself listen for the undercurrents in his words, Lithiníel began to sense he meant something entirely different. No, he was not glad at all, this Mouth of Sauron, this servant of Mordor. For whatever reason, he had wished a far different outcome from her meeting with the Dark Lord. Of that she was almost certain. But why? What effect could Sauron finding love have on one who was but his servant?

_Servant of darkness_, she thought. _One who would want to see the power of Mordor extended throughout this world. Perhaps he believes I can sway Sauron from finding the Ring, and convince him to abandon his dreams of dominion._

If that were true, then Lithiníel found it all too easy to believe the Mouth might wish her ill. Perhaps he had advised her to confront Sauron in the hopes the Dark Lord would strike her down for her impertinence. Indeed, it had almost come to that, save for the courage which had saved her in the end and had given her the strength to show Sauron she cared little for the ravaged visage he hid forever behind his hooded cloak. What would have happened if she had hesitated?

A little shiver worked its way down her spine then, and she forced herself to look back at the Man who had sought her destruction, giving him a smile as false as the one he had shown her. "No one could be gladder than I," she said in her sweetest tones. "It is easy to see why the Dark Lord has you so high in his counsels."

He bowed. "My thanks to you, my lady."

Lithiníel wanted nothing more but for him to be gone from her presence; at the same time, she wished there were some easy way for her to contact Sauron and tell him that his steward was not to be trusted. But she had not yet been given leave to make herself free of Barad Dûr, and she feared that to tell the Mouth she wished to see the Dark Lord would be to raise his suspicions. Even now he looked on her with a narrowed gaze, although the polite smile still hovered on his lips.

"I am sure you have much to do," she said then, glad that her voice sounded level and steady. "I know whatever his lordship has planned will please me, and you have my leave to tell him this. So do not let me keep you any longer."

Her words irritated him; she could tell by the quick flash in his grey eyes, now that she knew to look for it. But he could only bow and murmur, "Of course, my lady."

He had turned to go when she added, "If you could send my servant girl to me? I would like her to dress my hair for my next meeting with his lordship."

"Of course," the Mouth said once again, and left, closing the door behind him with more force than was strictly necessary.

Once he had gone, Lithiníel closed her eyes and allowed herself a deep breath. She could only hope he would not see her purpose in summoning Sarna. The slave girl was the only means Lithiníel could think of to contact Sauron -- he would of course come to visit her at some point, but that time could still be hours off, and she knew she must tell him of her suspicions as quickly as possible. Surely the Mouth could see nothing odd about asking for Sarna to come here. The girl had been placed at Lithiníel's beck and call for precisely this sort of thing.

Still, the minutes seemed to inch by with agonizing slowness as Lithiníel waited. She paced from the hearth to the window and back again, stirred the fire, then wandered back to the casement to stare outside, even though all that met her eyes was black night, with no light to relieve the darkness save the flickering of a few torches in a courtyard far below.

At last came a timid knock at the door, and Lithiníel rushed over to open it. Sarna sketched a quick curtsey and said, "You sent for me, my lady?"

"Yes. Come in."

The girl stepped inside and gazed at Lithiníel with puzzled dark eyes. "Is anything amiss, my lady?"

"Yes, Sarna, I'm afraid it is." As she waited, Lithiníel had toyed with the idea of writing a note for the girl to carry to Sauron, but she feared what might come to pass if the Mouth should happen to intercept her. No, Sarna would have to go to Sauron directly with Lithiníel's warning. She went on, "Do you know where the Dark Lord's audience chamber is located?"

The girl nodded, and her look of puzzlement slowly transformed into one of fear. "Why, my lady?"

"You must go to him now. Go to him and tell him -- " _Tell him what? That his trusted advisor wants me dead?_ She hesitated, then said, "Tell him that the Lady Lithiníel has a most urgent need to see him right away. Don't let anyone stop you. Do you understand?"

It was impossible for the dark-skinned girl to turn truly pale, but her face took on a pinched look. Her dark eyes were enormous in their smudged circles of kohl. "Go to _him_?" she repeated. "I cannot!"

"You must," Lithiníel said. "I know I ask a great deal from you, but I swear he will not harm you, not if he knows you have come at my bidding."

For an agonizing moment Sarna did not reply, but only bit her lip. At last she said in a whisper, "Yes, my lady." And then she turned and bolted out the door, as if her resolve would fail her if she waited even a few seconds.

Once again Lithiníel had nothing to do but wait. She had to assume no one would challenge Sarna's right to enter the area where the audience chamber was located, that no one would see her and intercept her for purposes of their own. At least the Mouth should be elsewhere carrying out his master's commands, but Lithiníel could not be certain of that. She could be certain of nothing, save the passage of time and her own mounting anxiety.

When he came, he did not knock, but entered the room in a swirl of black robes. She saw nothing of Sarna; perhaps Sauron had sent her on her way once she had delivered her message.

"What is this, Lithiníel, that you would send one of my slaves to fetch me to your presence?" he demanded.

She went to him immediately, holding out her hands to his gloved ones. To her relief, he did fold her into his arms; perhaps he had seen the worry on her countenance. As she pressed her face against his broad chest, she could hear the heavy beat of his heart within. At least now she was safe.

He let her remain thus for a moment. Then, with uncharacteristic gentleness, he held her away from him and gazed down into her face. "What troubles you, Lithiníel?"

"My lord, I fear that one of your servants may wish me ill."

His own features remained obscured by the hood of his garment, but she could feel his hands tighten around her arms. "What is this?"

Now that Sauron stood here before her, Lithiníel wondered if she had been too hasty, if her imagination had somehow read motives and machinations in the Mouth's behavior when in fact there were none. But in her mind's eye she saw again that flicker of hatred cross the Man's haughty features, even as she recalled how he had urged to her to confront Sauron and unmask him to prove her love. Surely anyone who served the Dark Lord would have known the dangers of such a gambit.

She looked up into Sauron's shadowed face, saw the glint of his silvery eyes within the hood. "My love, I very much fear this Man called the Mouth of Sauron has sought my destruction. I did not tell you this, but it was on his counsel that I sought to see your face for myself. At the time I was only glad he suggested the one way I might truly prove my love to you, but I have come to believe he made such a suggestion in the hope I would be struck down for my presumption. I suspect he is far from happy that you and I have come to an understanding."

When she finished speaking, Sauron remained silent, but it was not the silence of calm. Rather, his brooding quiet made her think of the utter stillness that often preceded the most violent tempests. Lithiníel waited, knowing she could say nothing else.

"Have you any evidence of this?" the Dark Lord asked at last. His baritone voice seemed to have deepened in anger, and she fancied she could feel the floor beneath her tremble somewhat.

She shook her head. "No true evidence, my lord, save what I have already told you. That, and a look in his eyes. I have never before had someone gaze upon me with such hatred. I cannot see how anyone could look upon another thus without wishing them ill."

Again Sauron was silent. Still he grasped her by the arms, and Lithiníel could feel the slight pressure of his heavy hands, the heat contained by the gloves. Despite her love for him, a cold trickle of fear seemed to work its way down her spine.

Finally he released her. "Your suspicions may be correct. Indeed, what you have told me illuminates certain remarks made by my servant, remarks which at the time seemed innocent enough." The broad shoulders lifted beneath their heavy draperies of black wool.

Then Sauron extended a hand to Lithiníel and she took it, uncertain as to his purpose. "What will you do, my lord?"

She could not see his face, but she had the impression he smiled beneath the hood. "Give him a chance to explain himself, of course. Come."

And with that the Dark Lord led her away, taking her by the hand and guiding her down toward the audience chamber. At the corners of her vision Lithiníel saw dark shapes hurrying out of their master's path. Heart pounding, she had to trot to keep up with Sauron's long strides, but she did not utter one word of protest. All she could do was hope her suspicions had been correct, and that she hadn't just sent an innocent man to his doom.

* * *

The way before him seemed tinged with red, as if he passed through the chambers of the Sammath Naur at the heart of Mount Doom instead of the dark and shadowed corridors of his citadel. _Traitor!_ his mind raged. _Fool!_

For although Lithiníel had made an attempt to soften her accusation by using words such as "suspect" and "believe," Sauron knew in the deepest recesses of his soul that she spoke only the truth. From almost the beginning of her sojourn here in Barad Dûr, the Mouth had been opposed to her presence, opposed to the time she spent in the Dark Lord's company. It did not require any great leap of the imagination to move from such protests to a realization that the steward very likely would have taken steps to ensure her destruction. His plan should have worked, save that he -- brilliant and cunning as he might be in certain situations -- could not foresee the purity of heart which led Lithiníel to accept Sauron for who and what he was. The Mouth had surely thought she must recoil in horror. No doubt almost anyone else would have.

_But she did not, fool, and it is her courage which will be your undoing_, the Dark Lord mused. Even as he strode through the hallways of his citadel, he kept Lithiníel's hand clasped in his. The feel of the fragile bones encased in his gloved grip caused the anger to surge within him once again. He had come so close to losing her, and all because of that ungrateful knave, that conniving bastard.

He sent out a silent call to two of his Nazgûl, telling them to seize the Mouth and bring him to the audience chamber. It was usually in that place where the Dark Lord was pleased to mete out his own form of justice, and he saw no reason to do otherwise now. Let his other servants see the price of treachery. It was a lesson well worth teaching once again, in case anyone else had forgotten it.

Once they were inside the lofty chamber, Sauron climbed the dais to his throne and sat, indicating that Lithiníel should remain standing next to him. She looked very pale against the black marble walls, but he was pleased to see she held herself straight and tall, chin lifted in the stance he knew so well.

They did not have very long to wait. Within a few moments, the doors opened, and in strode the two Nazgûl, the miserable Mouth held between them. As they entered, such an audience as Sauron required trailed in as well -- captains of his Haradrim and Easterling troops, those Black Númenoreans from whose ranks the Mouth himself had come, a few Uruk-hai leaders. They ranged themselves along the far walls of the chamber while the Ringwraiths dragged their captive to the foot of the dais and flung him to his knees.

The Dark Lord watched with narrowed eyes as the Mouth raised his head enough to cry out, "My lord! What is the reason for such treatment?"

"Do you dare to question my will?" Sauron rumbled.

At once the Mouth prostrated himself. "This one makes so such presumption. This one has always been a loyal servant -- "

"As to that, we will see."

A tremor racked the Man's body, but he did not raise himself from his flattened position on the cold black floor.

Smiling to himself, Sauron continued, "It seems you have acted contrary to my wishes. The one who stands next to me is my honored guest, and one who will soon be my consort. And yet you wished her dead, did you not, supposed servant of mine? Whence came this hatred? What has she ever done to you? Did you fear she would usurp your position as one of my closest advisors?"

"Lies!" the Mouth burst out. "My lord, someone has fed you falsehoods, attempted to deceive you. No doubt the she-elf has poured honeyed poison into your ears, to make you think I am something more than one who exists only to serve your will."

Anger flared in him, red and seething as the core of Mount Orodruin. That this worm should speak of her in such a way -- "Do not speak to me of lies, false one. Think you to deceive me, I who was a master of such things many ages before you were a black dream in your mother's mind?" Then Sauron bent his will upon the prostrate Man before him, seeing his thoughts laid bare: the hatred of the Eldar who had come among them, the scheme to have her be the instrument of her own destruction, the fury that followed when his plans came to naught. All was revealed to the Dark Lord then, and he felt his twisted mouth curve in a smile of bitter triumph. "You wished her dead at my hand. It is only fitting that you should suffer the same fate."

The lord of Mordor stood then, towering above the mortal who had flattened himself against the marble floor, as if by doing so he could somehow make himself disappear. Lithiníel made some sort of futile gesture with one hand, but then stopped, as if realizing matters had gone far beyond her intervention.

Still smiling, Sauron focused all his rage, all his anger, all the weary years of pain and doubt and despair, into the mind of his erstwhile servant. The Mouth convulsed and let out a scream of agony, his fingers scrabbling against the slick floor. Then he went limp. Dark blood began to flow from his slack mouth, from his staring eyes, from his ears.

Lithiníel gasped, her hand moving to her throat. He wished to go to her, to take her in his arms and tell her such things were necessary, that traitors could not be suffered to live, but he would not display such weakness in front of the watching ranks of Mordor. Instead, he moved to the front of the dais and roared, "Thus will perish all those who defy my will!"

To a man they sank to their knees, those captains and nobles and warriors who had been summoned to witness the justice of Sauron. Only the Nazgûl remained standing, but then, their loyalty was unimpeachable.

He nodded to the broken form of the man who had once stood almost as high as they. "Take that away," he commanded, and at once the Ringwraiths stepped forward to lift the corpse and remove it from their master's sight.

They left, and in their wake followed the rest of his audience, their presence no longer required. At last the echoing chamber was empty and quiet, save the pale slender form of the _elleth_ who had not moved from her place next to his throne. He turned and moved close to her, reaching out to draw her against him. How fragile she felt, light and insubstantial, and yet he knew within her was a core strong as _mithril_.

"It was necessary," he said, gazing down into her troubled features.

She murmured, "But if I was mistaken -- "

"You were not. I looked into his mind and saw the deception there. He would have gladly seen you dead."

Grey eyes wide, she stared back up at him. "So you have the power to see into another's thoughts?"

"Not all," he replied at once, somewhat amused by the disconcerted tone of her voice. "But he had sworn his loyalty to me, and had given over his will to be as my own. Because of the oaths he had made, I knew that he had broken them. Do not think I can walk easily in the paths of your mind, first of my heart."

She smiled then, and reached up to push back his hood. "I do not believe you need to read my mind to know what I desire of you."

Indeed he did not -- the slight parting of her full lips told him exactly what she wanted. He bent his head and laid his scarred mouth against her smooth, soft one, feeling her body press against his as he did so. The need raged within him. Soon, very soon, she would be completely his, although he wondered if that day could come soon enough.

Until then, however, her kiss would have to be enough.


	10. Ten

And here we come to the end. While I certainly appreciate the requests for this story to continue up to the War of the Ring, that was never my intention when I sat down to write it. I just wanted to explore the idea of a very unexpected romance and see if I could make it believable. (You can decide for yourselves how successful I was.) Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed or added this story to your favorites or alerts. While I don't have the time to respond to all of you individually, I just wanted to let you know how much I appreciate your feedback for something that does tend to be a rather lonely hobby.

* * *

Ten

If the denizens of Barad Dûr whispered amongst themselves about this strange Elf who had gained the Dark Lord's favor, Lithiníel caught no hint of it. Neither did she hear much of the reaction to the Mouth's unexpected demise. Another was raised in his place and took on the name and title, and things seemed to go on very much as they had, with the exception that now she was allowed to move freely about the citadel if she so desired, as long as Sarna accompanied her.

The alterations to Sauron's chambers went on apace, and the day when Lithiníel would take up residence there rapidly approached. She thought of her coming union with the Dark Lord with a combination of anticipation and fear. True, he had treated her with far greater dignity than she could have ever expected, and she had come to love him despite the dark spaces in his soul. It was one thing, however, to spend time with someone, to sit down at a table together and share a meal or even steal a few kisses in the privacy of an unoccupied audience chamber, and quite another to think of living out the rest of your life with that person, waking beside him each morning -- if in fact Sauron even required sleep -- and becoming half of a new and unique whole.

But she had agreed to become his consort, and if occasionally a thrill of anxiety would move through her at the thought, more often she experienced the same impatience he did, wishing for their current ambiguous status to transformed into something more tangible. And indeed, although it felt as though the days stretched on and on, in truth little more than a month passed until the time the Dark Lord's masons and craftsmen went to him and informed him the alterations to his chambers were complete. He called her there, and she went willingly enough, Sarna her faithful shadow. The servant girl waited without as Lithiníel entered the altered suite.

At first she did not see much changed; the austerely beautiful antechamber with its black marble floors and walls and hangings of unfigured crimson silk remained the same. But then she moved on into the sitting room Sauron had had enlarged and modified, with windows that now stretched almost from floor to ceiling. Not much could be done about the bleak view they let in, but at least the quality of light was much improved. The furnishings, too, had been changed, to the lighter and more graceful pieces favored by the Eldar. A mural depicting a green valley with a river flowing through it had been painted on one wall, and the curtains that fell gracefully to either side of each window were green as well, the fresh hue of new leaves in the spring.

"It pleases you?" the Dark Lord asked, as he stood by one of the windows.

"Very much," Lithiníel replied. "Truly, I could have not asked for anything more than this. I feel as if I were home."

"This is your home, is it not?"

She went to him then, holding out her hands to his gloved ones. "Yes, my love. Anyplace I am with you, I am home."

Sauron made no reply, but he pulled her against him, his arms bringing her close so that once more she could feel the strong, slow beat of his heart within his breast. Strange that she should feel so safe held thus, when the lover who held her was her people's most bitter foe.

_And yet I have had more consideration from him than from any of the Eldar, save my own family_, she thought. _Perhaps it is always so, when we find the true choice of our hearts. _

At length he released her, although he did bring one of her hands up within the shadows of his hood so that he might press her fingers against his scarred lips. Then he let go, and said, "I have something for you."

"Indeed?" she asked, and felt a little tremor of nervous anticipation move through her.

If he caught the note of uncertainty in her voice, he paid it no mind. From within the folds of his robes he brought out a shining band of bright metal. In its center glowed a stone of deepest crimson.

At the sight of the ring Lithiníel's heart seemed to skip a beat, until she gave herself a mental shake and told herself not to be a fool -- the One Ring was said to be a plain band of pure gold, with no markings or ornamentation visible to the naked eye. The jewel Sauron held out to her now was cunningly worked in the shape of leafy branches twining around the single stone, rather like briar rose brambles holding a bloody bloom at the center of a tangle.

"It comes from but one place in the world," the Dark Lord told her. "The Haradrim name it _Siralt Kîr_, which in their tongue means 'heart's blood.'" He took her right hand in his and gently slid the ring onto her center finger.

"It's beautiful," she said, staring down into the jewel. It caught odd flashes of light from the open window; it did not sparkle, but seemed instead to gather illumination inside itself, so that the stone appeared to glow from within.

"I made this for you, and its mate as well." Sauron laid a ring almost identical to hers in her palm, save that this one was much larger and heavier, the stone a smooth cabochon instead of faceted. As she held the jewel, he removed the glove from his left hand. The half-hearted daylight filling the room was merciless in revealing the scars that criss-crossed the pale flesh. He went on, "I must keep the ring finger for myself, my love, but you may place that one on the middle, to match your own."

Lithiníel knew he kept the ring finger bare against the day when he might recover the One Ring, but she hoped inwardly such a day might never come. Was it not enough for them to have one another? She knew such a notion only revealed her naïveté regarding the Dark Lord's obsession with the artifact he had created -- love her Sauron did, but she feared he loved the Ring more. All she could hope was that it might remain lost forever, and that he would be content to spend his days with her and accept her company as some sort of compensation for the loss he had suffered.

It would do no good to voice her concerns or doubts. She had realized some time ago she could only accept him as he was, and take joy in the subtle kindnesses he had shown her, the small things he did to show how deep his affection ran. To expect him to give up the hunt for his Ring would be like expecting the sun to rise in the west. So Lithiníel took the proffered ring and slid it onto his middle finger, then clasped his scarred hand in both of hers.

"Truly now we are one," she said. Her people did not bother with the mindless pomp and ceremony mortal Men required on such occasions. It was enough for the two involved to declare their intention to come together as one and commit to spending the rest of their lives together. By placing the rings on one another's fingers, she and Sauron were as irrevocably joined as if they had declared their union in front of a thousand witnesses.

"Yes," he replied, and there was a rough edge to his voice she had come to recognize.

The time for waiting was done. He bent his head to hers, found her mouth, drew her against him…and then he lifted her up, and carried her to the sleeping chamber beyond the sitting room. In there the curtains had been drawn against the daylight, and even her keen Elven eyes could make out few details. But then, she supposed he wanted it that way. As much as she told him over and over that his scarred visage held no horror for her, still he sought to conceal himself as much as possible. Even when they were alone together he kept his face concealed by the low-hanging hood of his cloak, and he seemed instinctively to choose dark corners and dimly lit chambers.

His hand moved to unclasp the belt from her waist, and Lithiníel heard it fall to the cold floor with a metallic, discordant jangle. Her gown had been fashioned loose and flowing in the style of her people; it required no fussy laces or cumbersome buttons, and he pulled it swiftly over her head. The cool air of the chamber flowed over her bare skin, but she had no time to think of that, for he had gathered her up once again and laid her down on the bed. She felt his heavy robes settle around her even as his mouth touched her naked flesh, awakening a fire as hot as the flames of Mount Orodruin itself. Without thinking, she reached out to pull his garments from him. She wanted to feel his body against hers with no concealing cloth between them. For a second he froze, and then she could almost feel him shrug and fling the heavy cowled cloak away, followed by the long robe that had served to cover him from throat to foot.

Then there were no barriers, only the heat of his flesh on hers, the touch of his hands, the warmth of his mouth as he kissed her in places she had never dreamed of. She reached out to him in the darkness, and took his darkness within her…..

* * *

Hours might have passed, or perhaps only minutes. Lithiníel had no way of knowing as she lay there in the unrelieved blackness of the bedchamber, her eyes straining against the shadows that seemed to press against her lids. After the Dark Lord had loved her, she had fallen into a slumber so deep it seemed near to death. If she had left this world in that moment, at least she would have done so as fulfilled as any being created by Eru had any right to be.

For one dizzying second, she could not recall where she was, as the bed and its linens felt unfamiliar. She reached out, and then knew she was not alone; she could feel him in the bed next to her, low heat radiating out from his body like a fire banked for the night.

His voice came to her in the darkness, mocking, yet somehow gentle at the same time. "Returned to the land of the living?"

"I believe so," Lithiníel replied, feeling then the pleasant soreness of her body, recalling how it had felt as he had touched her. "Did I sleep long?"

A movement that might have been a shrug. "Long? I cannot say. I stayed here with you, to watch over you as you slept. What does it matter how much time passed as I did so?"

To one who had been alive since the beginning of time, perhaps it mattered not at all. However, Lithiníel could feel her stomach reassert itself, letting her know that it did care how long it had been since her last meal, even though the Dark Lord apparently considered such matters to be of no consequence.

"I would say none at all," she replied, "were it not that, unlike you, I cannot go overlong without sustenance…especially after our past exertions."

He chuckled, even as strong arms reached out to pull her close. His lips brushed against her hair, and he said, "That is easy enough to remedy. I would not have you…weak."

Lithiníel let out a small laugh of her own at his remark. "Truly, my lord, I would not wish for such a lack to prevent me from filling your every need."

"Careful, my dear, or I fear I might not be able to wait until you have strengthened yourself." With that Lithiníel felt him get up from the bed. A short time later she heard a low, harsh clang which she assumed must be some sort of signal to let the servants know the Dark Lord required their assistance. A low flame flickered into existence from the candle on the bedside table, and she looked up to see Sauron once again wrapped in his long hooded cloak. He held out to her the gown she had discarded earlier.

Without speaking she took it from him and drew the garment over her head. Now somewhat clad -- although she had no idea what had happened to her underthings -- she felt a bit more herself. When the knock came at the door to Sauron's suite, Lithiníel felt steady enough to answer the door, as the Dark Lord made no move to do so.

Sarna stood outside, looking rather weary. With a guilty start, Lithiníel realized she had left the poor servant girl out in the corridor as she herself went in to her assignation with Sauron. Had the child been waiting there this whole time?

Apparently she had. Lithiníel began to stammer an apology, but Sarna only shook her head and gazed down at the floor. "It is no trouble, my lady," the girl said. "I am here to serve, and even if it were not my duty, still I would do so in thanks for your part in ridding this place of the Mouth of Sauron."

What had he to do with Sarna? Lithiníel opened her mouth to ask further questions, and then thought better of it. The girl would not meet her eyes, and if something shameful had passed between her and the one who had once been the Dark Lord's steward, better not to bring it up now. At least he was gone and could do no more harm.

"Still, I thank you for your service," Lithiníel went on. "And if you should ever wish to be released from that service, then you have only to ask. I would ensure your safe return to your people." Even as she said the words, though, she wondered if Sauron would give her that much power. Then again, what would he care about the fate of one servant girl?

"My people?" asked Sarna, and then she gave a small shrug. "My lady is mistaken -- I was born here in the Dark Lord's service, and although my people come from Harad, I have never seen such a place, nor do I wish to. My only wish is to stay here in your service."

_Where I am safe_ seemed to hang unspoken in the air between them. Lithiníel realized she had unwittingly protected Sarna from some evil, and the girl seemed to think that by continuing in the service of the Dark Lord's consort she might continue to enjoy such protection. Lithiníel did not pretend to understand the workings of Barad Dûr, but she knew at least she would have many long years in which to do so.

"If you wish it, then of course," Lithiníel said. "If you could bring me some supper, I would be most obliged."

Sarna curtseyed at once, and then hurried off down the corridor. For a moment Lithiníel stood in the doorway, watching until the girl's slender form had disappeared around a corner. When Lithiníel shut the door and turned around, it was to see Sauron standing a few feet away. He said nothing, but merely regarded her for a long moment.

Had she overstepped herself by making promises to Sarna she could not keep? "My apologies, my lord, if I presumed -- "

He held up a hand. The ruby glowed from his scarred finger. "It is no presumption, Lithiníel. You are my consort, and that one was given to you to be your servant. She is yours to dispose of as you will." Then he moved closer, and continued, "I rule here by force and by right. It has never been a matter of concern whether my subjects had any regard for me -- indeed, how could they? But it seems you have the gift of awaking loyalty in those who should otherwise have no cause to do so. It is a rare thing, here in Mordor."

It was the closest he had ever come to admitting a personal lack, and Lithiníel felt unexpectedly moved by his words. Truly, when one ruled by fear, one could not presume loyalty to be motivated by anything except a sense of self-preservation. He had allowed her to come closer to him than perhaps any other living being ever had, but she knew the intimacies they had shared did not mean he would allow any softening of the visage he presented to his subjects.

"Not so rare," she said at last, and went to him. Seeming to read her mood, he reached out and drew her close once more. "You have awakened such a loyalty in me, my love. Know that I am yours, and always shall be. Whatever doom this world has laid upon us, I know we shall face it together."

He said nothing for a moment, but merely continued to hold her. At length he said, "It is joy unlooked-for you have brought me, Lithiníel. May it always be thus."

"It will," she replied, her voice firm. "Always."

* * *

_Ages passed, and there finally came a day where the ruins of the Dark Lord's realm held no terrors for the Men of Gondor. Their kingdom had grown great in learning and wisdom, and an expedition was sent forth to see if any artifacts might have survived the collapse of Barad Dûr and the destruction of Mordor. _

_Although uncounted years had gone by, still the ground where the dark tower had stood was barren and black. No living thing went there, although the plains of Gorgoroth had finally been cleansed of their poisons, and grass now grew green and tall where once had been only ash and rock. _

_Of Barad Dûr only fallen blocks of stone remained; it was tedious work to sort through it, and certain members of the expedition began to wonder if their task had been folly from the start. They found nothing save masonry and ash and dirt, and after several days it seemed they would find little more. _

_On the morning of the seventh day, however, a strange glimmer from within a cairn of rock brought the Men crowding around. Within some was stirred a strange dread, for although they counted themselves Men of science, and they knew the Dark Lord's Ring had been destroyed many years ago, the sight of that warm gleam unsettled their spirits. But the leader of the expedition was not one to be cowed easily, and he reached out to push aside the broken rock and reveal the source of the golden light._

_At first the strange twisted shape made no sense, but as he held it up and the morning light caught in the gold and jewels, they saw it was composed of two rings of cunning design, each set with a ruby of purest crimson. Somehow in the collapse of the tower it seemed they had fused and melted together, so that one could not tell where one ended and the other began. _

_The Men crowded around, inspecting the jewels -- which, formed in the heat of the earth itself, seemed not have been affected by the destructive forces that destroyed their settings -- speculating, wondering. Certainly they seemed to have been some treasure of Sauron's, but for what purpose, no one could say. The conjoined rings did not appear to have any special properties, and no one handling them suffered any ill effects. At length it was decided that further study in Minas Tirith was required. Perhaps there an answer to their riddle could be found. After a few more days of fruitless digging revealed nothing, the expedition returned to Gondor carrying its single treasure. _

_But no explanation for that treasure could ever be found, and no one could ever say why the two rings had flowed into one, as if somehow, at the very end, those wearing them had clasped hands before they went down into the final darkness…._


End file.
